'  ^  Jt,  I 


It 


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^^^^^m^K^^m^ 


:    •..,  '•••         .  .  s  r 

4  •^'"•P--"  w^'W"  w 

' 


&&&?•• 


MARGRET    HOWTH. 


A   STORY   OF   TO-DAY. 


atter  hath  no  voice  to  alien  ears. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS. 

1862. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1862,  by 

TICKNOR  AND  FIELDS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


RITERSIDE,    CAMBRIDGE. 
STEREOTYPED    AND    PRINTED   BY   H.   0.   HOUGHTON 


TO    JfY    MOTHER. 


101783 


MARGRET    HOWTH 

A   STORY   OF   TO-DAY. 


CHAPTER   I. 

LET  me  tell  you  a  story  of  To-Day,  —  very 
homely  and  narrow  in  its  scope  and  aim.  Not 
of  the  To-Day  whose  significance  in  the  his 
tory  of  humanity  only  those  shall  read  who  will 
live  when  you  and  I  are  dead.  We  can  bear 
the  pain  in  silence,  if  our  hearts  are  strong 
enough,  while  the  nations  of  the  earth  stand 
afar  off.  I  have  no  word  of  this  To-Day  to 
speak.  I  write  from  the  border  of  the  battle 
field,  and  I  find  in  it  no  theme  for  shallow  argu 
ment  or  flimsy  rhymes.  The  shadow  of  death 
has  fallen  on  us  ;  it  chills  the  very  heaven.  No 
child  laughs  in  my  face  as  I  pass  down  the 
street.  Men  have  forgotten  to  hope,  forgotten 
to  pray;  only  in  the  bitterness  of  endurance, 
they  say  "  in  the  morning,  '  Would  God  it  were 
even ! '  and  in  the  evening,  '  Would  God  it  were 
morning  ! ' '  Neither  I  nor  you  have  the  proph 
et's  vision  to  see  the  age  as  its  meaning  stands 


4  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

written  before  God.  Those  who  shall  live  when 
we  are  dead  may  tell  their  children,  perhaps, 
how,  out  of  anguish  and  darkness  such  as  the 
world  seldom  has  borne,  the  enduring  morning 
evolved  of  the  true  world  and  the  true  man. 
It  is  not  clear  to  us.  Hands  wet  with  a  broth 
er's  blood  for  the  Right,  a  slavery  of  intoler 
ance,  the  hackneyed  cant  of  men,  or  the  blood- 
thirstiness  of  women,  utter  no  prophecy  to  us 
of  the  great  To-Morrow  of  content  and  right 
that  holds  the  world.  Yet  the  To-Morrow  is 
there;  if  God  lives,  it  is  there.  The  voice  of 
the  meek  Nazarene,  which  we  have  deafened 
down  as  ill-timed,  unfit  to  teach  the  watchword 
of  the  hour,  renews  the  quiet  promise  of  its 
coming  in  simple,  humble  things.  Let  us  go 
down  and  look  for  it.  There  is  no  need  that 
we  should  feebly  vaunt  and  madden  ourselves 
over  our  self-seen  rights,  whatever  they  may 
be,  forgetting  what  broken  shadows  they  are 
of  eternal  truths  in  that  calm  where  He  sits 
and  with  His  quiet  hand  controls  us. 

Patriotism  and  Chivalry  are  powers  in  the 
tranquil,  unlimited  lives  to  come,  as  well  as 
here,  I  know ;  but  there  are  less  partial  truths, 
higher  hierarchies  who  serve  the  God-man,  that 
do  not  speak  to  us  in  bayonets  and  victories, — 
Mercy  and  Love.  Let  us  not  quite  neglect 
them,  unpopular  angels  though  they  be.  Very 


MARGRET  HOWTH. 

humble  their  voices  are,  just  now  :  yet  not  alto 
gether  dead,  I  think.  Why,  the  very  low  glow 
of  the  fire  upon  the  heartlj)  tells  me  something  ^ 
of  recompense  coming  in  the  hereafter,  — 
Christmas -days,  and  heartsome  warmth  ;  in 
these  bare  hills  trampled  down  by  armed  men, 
the  yellow  clay  is  quick  with  pulsing  fibres, 
hints  of  the  great  heart  of  life  and  love  throb 
bing  within  ;  slanted  sunlight  would  show  me, 
in  these  sullen  smoke-clouds  from  the  camp, 
walls  of  amethyst  and  jasper,  outer  ramparts  \- 
of  the  Promised  Land.  Do  not  call  us  trait-  ^ 
ors,  then,  who  choose  to  be  cool  and  silent 
through  the  fever  of  the  hour,  —  who  choose  to 
search  in  common  things  for  auguries  of  the 
hopeful,  helpful  calm  to  come,  finding  even  in 
these  poor  sweet-peas,  thrusting  their  tendrils 
through  the  brown  mould;  a  deeper,  more 
healthful  lesson  for  the  eye  and  soul  than 
warring  truths.  Do  not  call  me  a  traitor,  if 
1  dare  weakly  to  hint  that  there  are  yet  other 
characters  besides  that  of  Patriot  in  which  a 
man  may  appear  creditably  in  the  great  mas 
querade,  and  not  blush  when  it  is  over;  or  if 
I  tell  you  a  story  of  To-Day,  in  which  there 
shall  be  no  bloody  glare, —  only  those  home 
lier,  subtiler  lights  which  we  have  overlooked.  ^ 
If  it  prove  to  you  that  the  sun  of  old  times  still  y 
shines,  and  the  God  of  old  times  still  lives,  is  not 
that  enough  ? 


l^Gy  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

My  story  is  very  crude  and  homely,  as  I  said, 
- —  only  a  rough  sketch  of  one  or  two  of  those 
people  whom  you  see  every  day,  and  call 
"  dregs,"  sometimes,  —  a  dull,  plain  bit  of 
prose,  such  as  you  might  pick  for  yourself  out 
of  any  of  these  warehouses  or  back-streets.  I 
expect  you  to  call  it  stale  and  plebeian,  for  I 
know  the  glimpses  of  life  it  pleases  you  best 
to  find ;  idyls  delicately  tinted ;  passion-veined 
hearts,  cut  bare  for  curious  eyes;  prophetic 
utterances,  concrete  and  clear ;  or  some  word 
of  pathos  or  fun  from  the  old  friends  who  have 
endenizened  themselves  in  everybody's  home. 
You  want  something,  in  fact,  to  lift  you  out 
of  this  crowded,  tobacco-stained  commonplace, 
to  kindle  and  chafe  and  glow  in  you.  I  want 
you  to  dig  into  this  commonplace,  this  vulgar 
American  life,  and  see  what  is  in  it.  Some 
times  I  think  it  has  a  new  and  awful  sig 
nificance  that  we  do  not  see. 

Your  ears  are  openest  to  the  war-trumpet 
now.  Ha!  that  is  spirit-stirring! — that  wakes 
up  the  old  Revolutionary  blood !  Your  man 
lier  nature  had  been  smothered  under  drudgery, 
the  poor  daily  necessity  for  bread  and  butter. 
I  want  you  to  go  down  into  this  common, 
every-day  drudgery,  and  consider  if  there  might 
not  be  in  it  also  a  great  warfare.  Not  a  serfish 
war;  not  altogether  ignoble,  though  even  its 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  7 

only  end  may  appear  to  be  your  daily  food. 
A  great  warfare,  I  think,  with  a  history  as  old 
as  the  world,  and  not  without  its  pathos.  It 
has  its  slain.  Men  and  women,  lean-jawed, 
crippled  in  the  slow,  silent  battle,  are  in  your 
alleys,  sit  beside  you  at  your  table ;  its  martyrs 
sleep  under  every  green  hill-side. 

You  must  fight  in  it ;  money  will  buy  you  no 
discharge  from  that  war.  There  is  room  in  it, 
believe  me,  whether  your  post  be  on  a  judge's 
bench,  or  over  a  wash-tub,  for  heroism,  for 
knightly  honour,  for  purer  triumph  than  his  who 
falls  foremost  in  the  breach.  Your  enemy,  Self, 
goes  with  you  from  the  cradle  to  the  coffin ;  it 
is  a  hand-to-hand  struggle  all  the  sad,  slow  way, 
fought  in  solitude,  —  a  battle  that  began  with 
the  first  heart-beat,  and  whose  victory  will  come 
only  when  the  drops  ooze  out,  and  suddenly  halt 
in  the  veins,  —  a  victory,  if  you  can  gain  it,  that 
will  drift  you  not  a  little  way  upon  the  coasts 
of  the  wider,  stronger  range  of  being,  beyond 
death. 

Let  me  roughly  outline  for  you  one  or  two 
lives  that  I  have  known,  and  how  they  con 
quered  or  were  worsted  in  the  fight.  Very 
common  lives,  I  know,  —  such  as  are  swarm 
ing  in  yonder  market-place ;  yet  I  dare  to  call 
them  voices  of  God, —  all! 

My  reason  for  choosing  this  story  to  tell  you 
is  simple  enough.  1# 


(8)  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

An  old  book,  which  I  happened  to  find  to-day, 
recalled  it.  It  was  a  ledger,  iron-bound,  with 
the  name  of  the  firm  on  the  outside,  —  Knowles 
&  Co.  You  may  have  heard  of  the  firm  :  they 
were  large  woollen  manufacturers  :  supplied  the 
home  market  in  Indiana  for  several  years.  This 
ledger,  you  see  by  the  writing,  has  been  kept  by 
a  woman.  That  is  not  unusual  in  Western 
trading  towns,  especially  in  factories  where  the 
operatives  are  chiefly  women.  In  such  establish 
ments,  they  can  fill  every  post  successfully,  but 
that  of  overseer :  they  are  too  hard  with  the 
hands  for  that. 

The  writing  here  is  curious :  concise,  square, 
not  flowing,  —  very  legible,  however,  exactly 
suited  to  its  purpose.  People  who  profess  to 
read  character  in  chirography  would  decipher 
but  little  from  these  cramped,  quiet  lines.  Only 
this,  probably:  that  the  woman,  whoever  she 
was,  had  not  the  usual  fancy  of  her  sex  for 
dramatizing  her  soul  in  her  writing,  her  dress, 
her  face,  —  kept  it  locked  up  instead,  intact ; 
that  her  words  and  looks,  like  her  writing,  were 
most  likely  simple,  mere  absorbents  by  which 
she  drew  what  she  needed  of  the  outer  world 
to  her,  not  flaunting  helps  to  fling  herself,  or 
the  tragedy  or  comedy  that  lay  within,  before 
careless  passers-by.  The  first  page  has  the 
date,  in  red  letters,  October  2,  1860,  largely  and 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  9 

clearly  written.  I  am  sure  the  woman's  hand 
trembled  a  little  when  she  took  up  the  pen  ;  but 
there  is  no  sign  of  it  here ;  for  it  was  a  new, 
desperate  adventure  to  her,  and  she  was  young, 
with  no  faith  in  herself.  She  did  not  look  des 
perate,  at  all,  —  a  quiet,  dark  girl,  coarsely 
dressed  in  brown. 

There  was  not  much  light  in  the  office  where 
she  sat ;  for  the  factory  was  in  one  of  the  close 
by-streets  of  the  town,  and  the  office  they  gave 
her  was  only  a  small  square  closet  in  the  sev 
enth  story.  It  had  but  one  window,  which 
overlooked  a  back-yard  full  of  dyeing  vats.  The 
sunlight  that  did  contrive  to  struggle  in  ob 
liquely  through  the  dusty  panes  and  cobwebs 
of  the  window,  had  a  sleepy  odour  of  copperas 
latent  in  it.  You  smelt  it  when  you  stirred. 
The  manager,  Pike,  who  brought  her  up,  had 
laid  the  day-books  and  this  ledger  open  on  the 
desk  for  her.  As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  she  shut 
the  door,  listening  until  his  heavy  boots  had 
thumped  creaking  down  the  rickety  ladder  lead 
ing  to  the  frame-rooms.  Then  she  climbed  up 
on  the  high  office-stool  (climbed,  I  said,  for  she 
was  a  little,  lithe  thing)  and  went  to  work, 
opening  the  books,  and  copying  from  one  to 
the  other  as  steadily,  monotonously,  as  if  she 
had  been  used  to  it  all  her  life.  Here  are  the 
first  pages  :  see  how  sharp  the  angles  are  of  the 


10  MAKGRET  HOWTH. 

blue  and  black  lines,  how  even  the  long  col 
umns:  one  would  not  think,  that,  as  the  steel 
pen  traced  them  out,  it  seemed  to  be  lining  out 
her  life,  narrow  and  black.  If  any  such  morbid 
fancy  were  in  the  girl's  head,  there  was  no  tear 
to  betray  it.  The  sordid,  hard  figures  seemed 
to  her  types  of  the  years  coming,  but  she  wrote 
them  down  unflinchingly :  perhaps  life  had  noth 
ing  better  for  her,  so  she  did  not  care.  She  fin 
ished  soon  :  they  had  given  her  only  an  hour  or 
two's  work  for  the  first  day.  She  closed  the 
books,  wiped  the  pens  in  a  quaint,  mechanical 
fashion,  then  got  down  and  examined  her  new 
home. 

It  was  soon  understood.  There  were  the 
walls  with  their  broken  plaster,  showing  the 
laths  underneath,  with  here  and  there,  over 
them,  sketches  with  burnt  coal,  showing  that 
her  predecessor  had  been  an  artist  in  his  way, 
—  his  name,  P.  Teagarden,  emblazoned  on  the 
ceiling  with  the  smoke  of  a  candle ;  heaps  of 
hanks  of  yarn  in  the  dusty  corners  ;  a  half-used 
broom  ;  other  heaps  of  yarn  on  the  old  toppling 
desk  covered  with  dust;  a  raisin-box,  with  P. 
Teagarden  done  on  the  lid  in  bas-relief,  half 
full  of  ends  of  cigars,  a  pack  of  cards,  and  a  rot 
ten  apple.  That  was  all,  except  an  impalpable 
sense  of  dust  and  worn-outness  pervading  the 
whole.  One  thing  more,  odd  enough  there :  a 


MAKGEET  HOWTH.  QJJ 

wire  cage,  hung  on  the  wall,  and  in  it  a  miser 
able  pecking  chicken,  peering  dolefully  with 
suspicious  eyes  out  at  her,  and  then  down  at 
the  mouldy  bit  of  bread  on  the  floor  of  his  cage, 
—  left  there,  I  suppose,  by  the  departed  Tea- 
garden.  That  was  all,  inside.  She  looked  out 
of  the  window.  In  it,  as  if  set  in  a  square  black 
frame,  was  the  dead  brick  wall,  and  the  oppo 
site  roof,  with  a  cat  sitting  on  the  scuttle.  Go 
ing  closer,  two  or  three  feet  of  sky  appeared.  It 
looked  as  if  it  smelt  of  copperas,  and  she  drew 
suddenly  back. 

She  sat  down,  waiting  until  it  was  time  to 
go ;  quietly  taking  the  dull  picture  into  her  slow, 
unrevealing  eyes ;  a  sluggish,  hackneyed  weari 
ness  creeping  into  her  brain ;  a  curious  feeling, 
that  all  her  life  before  had  been  a  silly  dream, 
and  this  dust,  these  desks  and  ledgers,  were 
real,  —  all  that  was  real.  It  was  her  birthday  ; 
she  was  twenty.  As  she  happened  to  remem 
ber  that,  another  fancy  floated  up  before  her, 
oddly  life-like :  of  the  old  seat  she  made  under 
the  currant-bushes  at  home  when  she  was  a 
child,  and  the  plans  she  laid  for  herself,  when 
she  should  be  a  woman,  sitting  there,  —  how 
she  would  dig  down  into  the  middle  of  the 
world,  and  find  the  kingdom  of  the  griffins,  or 
would  go  after  Mercy  and  Christiana  in  their 
pilgrimage.  It  was  only  a  little  while  ago 


12  HARGRET  HOWTH. 

since  these  things  were  more  alive  to  her  than 
anything  else  in  the  world.  The  seat  was 
under  the  currant-bushes  still.  Very  little  time 
ago ;  but  she  was  a  woman  now,  —  and,  look 
here !  A  chance  ray  of  sunlight  slanted  in, 
falling  barely  on  the  dust,  the  hot  heaps  of 
wool,  waking  a  stronger  smell  of  copperas ;  the 
chicken  saw  it,  and  began  to  chirp  a  weak,  dis 
mal  joy,  more  sorrowful  than  tears.  She  went 
to  the  cage,  and  put  her  finger  in  for  it  to  peck 
at.  Standing  there,  if  the  vacant  life  coming 
rose  up  before  her  in  that  hard  blare  of  sun 
light,  she  looked  at  it  with  the  same  still,  wait 
ing  eyes,  that  told  nothing. 

The  door  opened  at  last,  and  a  man  came  in, 
—  Dr.  Knowles,  the  principal  owner  of  the  fac 
tory.  He  nodded  shortly  to  her,  and,  going  to 
the  desk,  turned  over  the  books,  peering  suspi 
ciously  at  her  work.  An  old  man,  overgrown, 
looking  like  a  huge  misshapen  mass  of  flesh,  as 
he  stood  erect,  facing  her. 

"  You  can  go  now,"  he  said,  gruffly.  "  To 
morrow  you  must  wait  for  the  bell  to  ring,  and 
go  —  with  the  rest  of  the  hands." 

A  curious  smile  flickered  over  her  face  like  a 
shadow ;  but  she  said  nothing.  He  waited  a 
moment. 

«  So  !  "  he  growled,  « the  Howth  blood  does 
not  blush  to  go  down  into  the  slime  of  the  gut 
ter  ?  is  sufficient  to  itself?  " 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  13 

A  cool,  attentive  motion,  —  that  was  all. 
Then  she  stooped  to  tie  her  sandals.  The  old 
man  watched  her,  irritated.  She  had  been  used 
to  the  keen  scrutiny  of  his  eyes  since  she  was 
a  baby,  so  was  cool  under  it  always.  The  face 
watching  her  was  one  that  repelled  most  men  : 
dominant,  restless,  flushing  into  red  gusts  of 
passion,  a  small,  intolerant  eye,  half  hidden  in 
folds  of  yellow  fat, — the  eye  of  a  man  who 
would  give  to  his  master  (whether  God  or  Sa 
tan)  the  last  drop  of  his  own  blood,  and  exact 
the  same  of  other  men. 

She  had  tied  her  bonnet  and  fastened  her 
shawl,  and  stood  ready  to  go. 

•"Is  that  all  you  want?"  he  demanded. 
"  Are  you  waiting  to  hear  that  your  work  is 
well  done  ?  Women  go  through  life  as  babies 
learn  to  walk,  —  a  mouthful  of  pap  every  step, 
only  they  take  it  in  praise  or  love.  Pap  is  bet 
ter.  Which  do  you  want  ?  Praise,  I  fancy." 

"  Neither,"  she  said,  quietly  brushing  her 
shawl.  "  The  work  is  well  done,  I  know." 

The  old  man's  eye  glittered  for  an  instant, 
satisfied ;  then  he  turned  to  the  books.  He 
thought  she  had  gone,  but,  hearing  a  slight 
clicking  sound,  turned  round.  She  was  taking 
the  chicken  out  of  the  cage. 

"  Let  it  alone  ! "  he  broke  out,  sharply. 
"  Where  are  you  going  with  it  ?  " 


14  MARGRET   HOWTH. 

"  Home,"  she  said,  with  a  queer,  quizzical 
face.  "  Let  it  smell  the  green  fields,  Doctor. 
Ledgers  and  copperas  are  not  good  food  for  a 
chicken's  soul,  or  body  either." 

"  Let  it  alone  !  "  he  growled.  "  You  take  it 
for  a  type  of  yourself,  eh  ?  It  has  another  work 
to  do  than  to  grow  fat  and  sleep  about  the 
barnyard." 

She  opened  the  cage. 

«  I  think  I  will  take  it." 

"  No,"  he  said,  quietly.  "  It  has  a  master 
here.  Not  P.  Teagarden.  Why,  Margret," 
pushing  his  stubby  finger  between  the  tin  bars, 
"  do  you  think  the  God  you  believe  in  would 
have  sent  it  here  without  a  work  to  do  ?  " 

She  looked  up ;  there  was  a  curious  tremour 
in  his  flabby  face,  a  shadow  in  his  rough  voice. 

"  If  it  dies  here,  its  life  won't  have  been  lost. 
Nothing  is  lost.  Let  it  alone." 

"  Not  lost  ?  "  she  said,  slowly,  refastening  the 
cage.  "  Only  I  think  " 

"What,  child?" 

She  glanced  furtively  at  him. 

"  It's  a  hard,  scraping  world  where  such  a 
thing  as  that  has  work  to  do ! " 

He  vouchsafed  no  answer.  She  waited  to 
see  his  lip  curl  bitterly,  and  then,  amused,  went 
down  the  stairs.  She  had  paid  him  for  his 
sneer.  * 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  15 

The  steps  were  but  a  long  ladder  set  in  the 
wall,  not  the  great  staircase  used  by  the  hands : 
that  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  factory.  It 
was  a  huge,  unwieldy  building,  such  as  crowd 
the  suburbs  of  trading  towns.  This  one  went 
round  the  four  sides  of  a  square,  with  the  yard 
for  the  vats  in  the  middle.  The  ladders  and 
passages  she  passed  down  were  on  the  inside, 
narrow  and  dimly  lighted :  she  had  to  grope  her 
way  sometimes.  The  floors  shook  constantly 
with  the  incessant  thud  of  the  great  Jooms  that 
filled  each  story,  like  heavy,  monotonous  thun 
der.  It  deafened  her,  made  her  dizzy,  as  she 
went  down  slowly.  It  was  no  short  walk  to 
reach  the  lower  hall,  but  she  was  down  at  last. 
Doors  opened  from  it  into  the  ground-floor  ware- 
rooms  ;  glancing  in,  she  saw  vast,  dingy  recesses 
of  boxes  piled  up  to  the  dark  ceilings.  There 
was  a  crowd  of  porters  and  draymen  cracking 
their  whips,  and  lounging  on  the  trucks  by  the 
door,  waiting  for  loads,  talking  politics,  and 
smoking.  The  smell  of  tobacco,  copperas,  and 
burning  logwood  was  heavy  to  clamminess  here. 
She  stopped,  uncertain.  One  of  the  porters,  a 
short,  sickly  man,  who  stood  aloof  from  the  rest, 
pushed  open  a  door  for  her  with  his  staff.  Mar- 
gret  had  a  quick  memory  for  faces  ;  she  thought 
she  had  seen  this  one  before  as  she  passed,  —  a 
dark  face,  sullen,  heavy-lipped,  the  hair  cut  con- 


16  MARGRET  HOY7TH. 

vict-fashion,  close  to  the  head.  She  thought 
too,  one  of  the  men  muttered  "jail-bird,"  jeer 
ing  him  for  his  forwardness.  "  Load  for  Clin 
ton  !  Western  Railroad !  "  sung  out  a  sharp 
voice  behind  her,  and,  as  she  went  into  the 
street,  a  train  of  cars  rushed  into  the  hall  to 
be  loaded,  and  men  swarmed  out  of  every  cor 
ner,  —  red-faced  and  pale,  whiskey-bloated  and 
heavy-brained,  Irish,  Dutch,  black,  with  souls 
.half  asleep  somewhere,  and  the  destiny  of  a 
nation  in  their  grasp,  —  hands,  like  herself,  go 
ing  through  the  slow,  heavy  work,  for,  as  Pike 
the  manager  would  have  told  you,  "  three  dol 
lars  a  week,  —  good  wages  these  tight  times." 
For  nothing  more  ?  Some  other  meaning  may 
have  fallen  from  their  faces  into  this  girl's  subtile 
intuition  in  the  instant's  glance,  —  cheerfuller, 
remoter  aims,  hidden  in  the  most  sensual  face, — 
homeliest  home-scenes,  low  climbing  ambitions, 
some  delirium  of  pleasure  to  come,  —  whiskey, 
if  nothing  better:  aims  in  life  like  yours  differ 
ing  in  degree.  Needing  only  to  make  them  the 

same did  you  say  what  ? 

She  had  reached  the  street  now,  —  a  back- 
street,  a  crooked  sort  of  lane  rather,  running 
between  endless  piles  of  warehouses.  She  hur 
ried  down  it  to  gain  the  suburbs,  for  she  lived 
out  in  the  country.  It  was  a -long,  tiresome 
walk  through  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  where 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  17 

the  dwelling-houses  were,  —  long  rows  of  two- 
story  bricks  drabbled  with  soot-stains.  It  was 
two  years  since  she  had  been  in  the  town.  Re 
membering  this,  and  the  reason  why  she  had 
shunned  it,  she  quickened  her  pace,  her  face 
growing  stiller  than  before.  One  might  have 
fancied  her  a  slave  putting  on  a  mask,  fearing 
to  meet  her  master.  The  town,  being  unfa 
miliar  to  her,  struck  her  newly.  She  saw  the 
expression  on  its  face  better.  It  was  a  large 
trading  city,  compactly  built,  shut  in  by  hills. 
It  had  an  anxious,  harassed  look,  like  a  specu 
lator  concluding  a  keen  bargain  ;  the  very  dwell 
ing-houses  smelt  of  trade,  having  shops  in  the 
lower  stories ;  in  the  outskirts,  where  there  are 
cottages  in  other  cities,  there  were  mills  here ; 
the  trees,  which  some  deluded  dreamer  had 
planted  on  the  flat  pavements,  had  all  grown 
up  into  abrupt  Lombardy  poplars,  knowing 
their  best  policy  was  to  keep  out  of  the  way; 
the  boys,  playing  marbles  under  them,  played 
sharply  "  for  keeps ; "  the  bony  old  dray-horses, 
plodding  through  the  dusty  crowds,  had  specu 
lative  eyes,  that  measured  their  oats  at  night 
with  a  "  you-don't-cheat-me  "  look.  Even  the 
churches  had  not  the  grave  repose  of  the  old 
brown  house  yonder  in  the  hills,  where  the  few 
field-people  —  Arians,  Calvinists,  Churchmen  — 
gathered  every  Sunday,  and  air  and  sunshine 


18  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

and  God's  charity  made  the  day  holy.  These 
churches  lifted  their  hard  stone  faces  insolent 
ly,  registering  their  yearly  alms  in  the  morning 
journals.  To  be  sure  the  back-seats  were  free 
for  the  poor ;  but  the  emblazoned  crimson  of 
the  windows,  the  carving  of  the  arches,  the  very 
purity  of  the  preacher's  style,  said  plainly  that 
it  was  easier  for  a  camel  to  go  through  the  eye 
of  a  needle  than  for  a  man  in  a  red  wam-us  to 
enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven  through  that  gate. 
Nature  itself  had  turned  her  back  on  the 
town :  the  river  turned  aside,  and  but  half  a 
river  crept  reluctantly  by ;  the  hills  were  but 
bare  banks  of  yellow  clay.  There  was  a  cinder- 
road  leading  through  these.  Margret  climbed 
it  slowly.  The  low  town-hills,  as  I  said,  were 
bare,  covered  at  their  bases  with  dingy  stubble- 
fields.  In  the  sides  bordering  the  road  gaped 
the  black  mouths  of  the  coal-pits  that  burrowed 
under  the  hills,  under  the  town.  Trade  every 
where,  —  on  the  earth  and  under  it.  No  won 
der  the  girl  called  it  a  hard,  scraping  world. 
But  when  the  road  had  crept  through  these 
hills,  it  suddenly  shook  off  the  cinders,  and 
turned  into  the  brown  mould  of  the  mead 
ows, —  turned  its  back  on  trade  and  the  smoky 
town,  and  speedily  left  it  out  of  sight  contempt 
uously,  never  looking  back  once.  This  was  the 
country  now  in  earnest. 


MARGRET   HOWTH.  19 

Margret    slackened    her    step,    drawing   long 
breaths  of  the  fresh  cold  air.     Far  behind  her, 
panting  and  puffing  along,  came  a  black,  burly 
figure,  Dr.  Knowles.     She  had  seen  him  behind 
her  all  the  way,  but  they  did  not  speak.     Be 
tween  the  two  there  lay  that   repellent  resem 
blance  which  made  them  like  close  relations,  — 
closer  when  they  were  silent.     You  know  such 
people  ?      When  you  speak  to  them,  the  little 
sharp  points  clash.     Yet  they  are  the  few  whom 
you  surely  know  you  will  meet  in  the  life  be 
yond  death,  "  saved  "  or  not.     The  Doctor  came 
slowly  along  the  quiet  country-road,  watching 
the  woman's  figure  going  as  slowly  before  him. 
He  had  a  curious  interest  in  the  girl,  —  a  secret 
reason  for  the  interest,  which  as  yet  he   kept 
darkly  to  himself.     For  this  reason  he  tried  to 
fancy  how  her  new  life  would  seem  to  her.     It 
should  be  hard  enough,  her  work,  —  he  was  de 
termined  on  that;    her  strength  and  endurance 
must   be   tested   to   the   uttermost.      He    must 
know  what  stuff  was  in  the  weapon  before  he 
used  it.      He  had  been  reading  the  slow,  cold 
thing  for  years,  —  had   not  got  into  its   secret 
yet.     But  there  was  power  there,   and  it  was 
the  power  he  wanted.     Her  history  was  simple 
enough  :  she  was  going  into  the  mill  to  support 
a  helpless  father  and  mother  ;  it  was  a  common 
story ;  she  had  given  up  much  for  them ;  —  other 


20  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

women  did  the  same.  He  gave  her  scanty  praise. 
Two  years  ago  (he  had  keen,  watchful  eyes,  this 
man)  he  had  fancied  that  the  homely  girl  had  a 
dream,  as  most  women  have,  of  love  and  mar 
riage  :  she  had  put  it  aside,  he  thought,  forever ; 
it  was  too  expensive  a  luxury ;  she  had  to  begin 
the  life-long  battle  for  bread  and  butter.  Her 
dream  had  been  real  and  pure,  perhaps  ;  for  she 
accepted  no  sham  love  in  its  place  :  if  it  had  left 
an  empty  hunger  in  her  heart,  she  had  not  tried 
to  fill  it.  Well,  well,  it  was  the  old  story.  Yet 
he  looked  after  her  kindly  as  he  thought  of  it ; 
as  some  people  look  sorrowfully  at  children,  go 
ing  back  to  their  own  childhood.  For  a  mo 
ment  he  half  relented  in  his  purpose,  thinking, 
perhaps,  her  work  for  life  was  hard  enough. 
But  no :  this  woman  had  been  planned  and 
kept  by  God  for  higher  uses  than  daughter  or 
wife  or  mother.  It  was  his  part  to  put  her  work 
into  her  hands. 

The  road  was  creeping  drowsily  now  between 
high  grass-banks,  out  through  the  hills.  A  sleepy, 
quiet  road.  The  restless  dust  of  the  town  never 
had  been  heard  of  out  there.  It  went  wan 
dering  lazily  through  the  corn-fields,  down  by 
the  river,  into  the  very  depths  of  the  woods,  — 
the  low  October  sunshine  slanting  warmly  down 
it  all  the  way,  touching  the  grass-banks  and  the 
corn-fields  with  patches  of  russet  gold.  Nobody 


MARGRET   HOWTH.  21 

in  such  a  road  could  be  in  a  hurry.  The  quiet 
was  so  deep,  the  free  air,  the  heavy  trees,  the 
sunshine,  all  so  full  and  certain  and  fixed,  one 
could  be  sure  of  finding  them  the  same  a  hun 
dred  years  from  now.  Nobody  ever  was  in  a 
hurry.  The  brown  bees  came  along  there,  when 
their  work  was  over,  and  hummed  into  the  great 
purple  thistles  on  the  roadside  in  a  voluptuous 
stupor  of  delight.  The  cows  sauntered  through 
the  clover  by  the  fences,  until  they  wound  up  by 
lying  down  in  it  and  sleeping  outright.  The  coun 
try-people,  jogging  along  to  the  mill,  walked  their 
fat  old  nags  through  the  stillness  and  warmth 
so  slowly  that  even  Margret  left  them  far  be 
hind.  As  the  road  went  deeper  into  the  hills, 
the  quiet  grew  even  more  penetrating  and  cer 
tain, —  so  certain  in  these  grand  old  mountains 
that  one  called  it  eternal,  and,  looking  up  to  the  , 
peaks  fixed  in  the  clear  blue,  grew  surer  of  a  ^ 
world  beyond  this  where  there  is  neither  change 
nor  death. 

It  was  growing  late  ;  the  evening  air  more 
motionless  and  cool ;  the  russet  gold  of  the  sun 
shine  mottled  only  the  hill-tops  now ;  in  the 
valleys  there  was  a  duskier  brown,  deepening 
every  moment.  Margret  turned  from  the  road, 
and  went  down  the  fields.  One  did  not  won 
der,  feeling  the  silence  of  these  hills  and  broad 
sweeps  of  meadow,  that  this  woman,  coming 


22  MARGRET  HOWTII. 

down  from  among  them,  should  be  strangely 
still,  with  dark  questioning  eyes  dumb  to  their 
own  secrets. 

Looking  into  her  face  now,  you  could  be  sure 
of  one  thing:  that  she  had  left  the  town,  the 
factory,  the  dust  far  away,  shaken  the  thought 
of  them  off  her  brain.  No  miles  could  measure 
the  distance  between  her  home  and  them.  At 
a  stile  across  the  field  an  old  man  sat  wait 
ing.  She  hurried  now,  her  cheek  colouring.  Dr. 
Knowles  could  see  them  going  to  the  house  be 
yond,  talking  earnestly.  He  sat  down  in  the 
darkening  twilight  on  the  stile,  and  waited  half 
an  hour.  He  did  not  care  to  hear  the  story  of 
Margret's  first  day  at  the  mill,  knowing  how  her 
father  and  mother  would  writhe  under  it,  soften 
it  as  she  would.  It  was  nothing  to  her,  he 
knew.  So  he  waited.  After  a  while  he  heard 
the  old  man's  laugh,  like  that  of  a  pleased  child, 
and  then  went  in  and  took  her  place  beside  him. 
She  went  out,  but  came  back  presently,  every 
grain  of  dust  gone,  in  her  clear  dress  of  pearl 
gray.  The  neutral  tint  suited  her  well.  As  she 
stood  by  the  window,  listening  gravely  to  them, 
the  homely  face  and  waiting  figure  came  into 
full  relief.  Nature  had  made  the  woman  in  a 
freak  of  rare  sincerity.  There  were  no  reflected 
lights  about  her ;  no  gloss  on  her  skin,  no  glitter 
in  her  eyes,  no  varnish  on  her  soul.  Simple 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  23 

and  dark  and  pure,  there  she  was,  for  God  and 
her  master  to  conquer  and  understand.  Her 
flesh  was  cold  and  colourless,  —  there  were  no 
surface  tints  on  it,  —  it  warmed  sometimes 
slowly  from  far  within ;  her  voice,  quiet,  —  out 
of  her  heart;  her  hair,  the  only  beauty  of  the 
woman,  was  lustreless  brown,  lay  in  unpolished 
folds  of  dark  shadow.  I  saw  such  hair  once, 
only  once.  It  had  been  cut  from  the  head  of  a 
man,  who,  unconscious,  simple  as  a  child,  lived 
out  the  law  of  his  nature,  and  set  the  world  at 
defiance,  —  Bysshe  Shelley. 

The  Doctor,  talking  to  her  father,  watched  the 
girl  furtively,  took  in  every  point,  as  one  might 
critically  survey  a  Damascus  blade  which  he 
was  going  to  carry  into  battle.  There  was  nei 
ther  love  nor  scorn  in  his  look,  —  a  mere  fixed 
ness  of  purpose  to  make  use  of  her  some  day. 
He  talked,  meanwhile,  glancing  at  her  now  and 
then,  as  if  the  subject  they  discussed  were  indi 
rectly  linked  with  his  plan  for  her.  If  it  were, 
she  was  unconscious  of  it.  She  sat  on  the 
wooden  step  of  the  porch,  looking  out  on  the 
melancholy  sweep  of  meadow  and  hill  range 
growing  cool  and  dimmer  in  the  dun  twilight, 
not  hearing  what  they  said,  until  the  sharpened, 
earnest  tones  roused  her. 

"  You  wiU  fail,  Knowles." 

It  was  her  father  who  spoke. 

"  Nothing  can  save  such  a  scheme  from  fail- 
2 


24  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

ure.  Neither  the  French  nor  German  Socialists 
attempted  to  base  their  systems  on  the  lowest 
class,  as  you  design." 

"  I  know,"  said  Knowles.  "  That  accounts 
for  their  partial  success." 

"  Let  me  understand  your  plan  practically," 
eagerly  demanded  her  father. 

She  thought  Knowles  evaded  the  question,  — 
wished  to  leave  the  subject.  Perhaps  he  did 
not  regard  the  poor  old  school-master  as  a  prac 
tical  judge  of  practical  matters.  All  his  life  he 
had  called  him  thriftless  and  unready. 

"  It  never  will  do,  Knowles,"  he  went  on  in 
his  slow  way.  "  Any  plan,  Phalanstery  or  Com 
munity,  call  it  what  you  please,  founded  on  self- 
government,  is  based  on  a  sham,  the  tawdriest 
of  shams." 

The  old  school-master  shook  his  head  as  one 
who  knows,  and  tried  to  push  the  thin  gray 
hairs  out  of  his  eyes  in  a  groping  way.  Mar- 
gret  lifted  them  back,  so  quietly  that  he  did  not 
feel  her. 

"  You'll  call  the  Republic  a  sham  next ! "  said 
the  Doctor,  coolly  aggravating. 

"The  Republic!"  The  old  man  quickened 
his  tone,  like  a  war-horse  scenting  the  battle 
near  at  hand.  "  There  never  was  a  thinner- 
crusted  Devil's  egg  in  the  world  than  democ 
racy.  I  think  Pve  told  you  that  before?" 

"  I  think  you  have,"  said  the  other,  dryly. 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  25 

"  You  always  were  a  Tory,  Mr.  Howth,"  said 
his  wife,  in  her  placid,  creamy  way.  "  It  is  in 
the  blood,  I  think,  Doctor.  The  Howths  fought 
under  Cornwallis,  you  know." 

The  school-m aster  waited  until  his  wife  had 
ended. 

"  Very  true,  Mrs.  Howth,"  he  said,  with  a 
grave  smile.  Then  his  thin  face  grew  hot  again. 

"  No,  Dr.  Knowle*.  Your  scheme  is  but  a 
sign  of  the  mad  age  we  live  in.  Since  the  thir 
teenth  century,  when  the  anarchic  element 
sprang  full-grown  into  the  history  of  humanity, 
that  history  has  been  chaos.  And  this  republic 
is  the  culmination  of  chaos." 

"  Out  of  chaos  came  the  new-born  earth," 
suggested  the  Doctor. 

"  But  its  foundations  were  granite,"  rejoined 
the  old  man  with  nervous  eagerness,  —  ''gran 
ite,  not  the  slime  of  yesterday.  When  you 
found  empires,  go  to  work  as  God  worked." 

The  Doctor  did  not  answer ;  sat  looking,  in 
stead,  out  into  the  dark  indifferently,  as  if  the 
heresies  which  the  old  man  hurled  at  him  were 
some  old  worn-out  song.  Seeing,  however,  that 
the  school-master's  flush  of  enthusiasm  seemed 
on  the  point  of  dying  out,  he  roused  himself  to 
gibe  it  into  life. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Howth,  what  will  you  have  ?  If 
the  trodden  rights  of  the  human  soul  are  the 


26  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

slime  of  yesterday,  how  shall  we  found  our  em- 
pire  to  last?  On  despotism?  Civil  or  theo 
cratic  ?  " 

"  Any  despotism  is  better  than  that  of  newly 
enfranchised  serfs,"  replied  the  school-master. 

The  Doctor  laughed. 

"  What  a  successful  politician  you  would 
have  made  ?  You  would  have  had  such  a  win 
ning  way  to  the  hearts  of  the  great  unwashed  ! " 

Mrs.  Howth  laid  down  her  knitting. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  timidly,  "  I  think  that  is 
treason." 

The  angry  heat  died  out  of  his  face  instantly, 
as  he  turned  to  her,  without  the  glimmer  of 
a  covert  smile  at  her  simplicity.  She  was  a 
woman  ;  and  when  he  spoke  to  the  Doctor,  it 
was  in  a  tone  less  sharp. 

"  What  is  it  the  boys  used  to  declaim,  their 
Yankee  hearts  throbbing  under  their  round 
abouts  ?  '  Happy,  proud  America  ! '  Some 
how  in  that  way.  *  Cursed,  abased  America!' 
better  if  they  had  said.  Look  at  her,  in  the 
warm  vigour  of  her  youth,  most  vigorous  in  de 
cay  !  Look  at  the  germs  and  dregs  of  nations, 
creeds,  religions,  fermenting  together!  As  for 
the  theory  of  self-government,  it  will  muddle 
down  here,  as  in  the  three  great  archetypes  of 
the  experiment,  into  a  puling,  miserable  fail- 


MARGRET   HOWTH.  (    27 


The  Doctor  did  not  hear.  Some  sharper 
shadow  seemed  to  haunt  him  than  the  downfall 
of  the  Republic.  What  help  did  he  seek  in 
this  girl?  His  keen,  deep  eyes  never  left  her 
unconscious  face. 

"  No,"  Mr.  Howth  went  on,  having  the  field 
to  himself,  —  "  we  left  Order  back  there  in  the 
ages  you  call  dark,  and  Progress  will  trumpet 
the  world  into  the  ditch." 

"  Comte !  "  growled  the  Doctor. 

The  school-master's  cane  beat  an  angry  tattoo 
on  the  hearth. 

"  You  sneer  at  Comte  ?  Because,  having  the 
clearest  eye,  the  widest  sweeping  eye  ever  given 
to  man,  he  had  no  more  ?  It  was  to  show  how 
far  flesh  can  go  alone.  Could  he  help  it,  if  God 
refused  the  prophet's  vision  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure,  Samuel,"  interrupted  his  wife  with 
a  sorrowful  earnestness,  "  your  own  eyes  were 
as  strong  as  a  man's  could  be.  It  was  ten  years 
after  I  wore  spectacles  that  you  began.  Only 
for  that  miserable  fever,  you  could  read  short 
hand  now." 

Her  own  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears.  There 
was  a  sudden  silence.  Margret  shivered,  as  if 
some  pain  stung  her.  Holding  her  father's  bony 
hand  in  hers,  she  patted  it  on  her  knee.  The 
hand  trembled  a  little.  Knowles's  sharp  eyes 
darted  from  one  to  the  other;  then,  with  a 


28  MAEGRET  HOWTH. 

smothered  growl,  he  shook  himself,  and  rushed 
headlong  into  the  old  battle  which  he  and  the 
school-master  had  been  waging  now,  off'  and  on, 
some  six  years.  That  was  a  fight,  I  can  tell 
you  !  None  of  your  shallow,  polite  clashing  of 
modern  theories,  —  no  talk  of  your  Jeffersonian 
Democracy,  your  high-bred  Federalism  !  They 
took  hold  of  the  matter  by  the  roots,  clear  at 
the  beginning. 

Mrs.  Howth's  breath  fairly  left  her,  they  went 
into  the  soul  of  the  matter  in  such  a  dangerous 
way.  What  if  Joel  should  hear  ?  No  doubt  he 
would  report  that  his  master  was  an  infidel,  — 
that  would  be  the  next  thing  they  would  hear. 
He  was  in  the  kitchen  now :  he  finished  his 
wood-chopping  an  hour  ago.  Asleep,  doubtless; 
that  was  one  comfort.  Well,  if  he  were  awake, 
he  could  not  understand.  That  class  of  people 

And  Mrs.  Howth  (into  whose  kindly  brain 

just  enough  of  her  husband's  creed  had  glim 
mered  to  make  her  say,  "  that  class  of  people," 
in  the  tone  with  which  Abraham  would  not 
have  spoken  of  Dives  over  the  gulf)  went 
tranquilly  back  to  her  knitting,  wondering  why 
Dr.  Kriowles  should  come  ten  times  now  where 
he  used  to  come  once,  to  provoke  Samuel  into 
these  wearisome  arguments.  Ever  since  their 
misfortune  came  on  them,  he  had  been  there 
every  night,  always  at  it.  She  should  think  he 


MARGRET  HOWTII.  29 

might  be  a  little  more  considerate.  Mr.  Howth 
surely  had  enough  to  think  of,  what  with  his  — 
his  misfortune,  and  the  starvation  waiting  for 
them,  and  poor  Margret's  degradation,  (she  sigh 
ed  here,)  without  bothering  his  head  about  the 
theocratic  principle,  or  the  Battle  of  Armaged 
don.  She  had  hinted  as  much  to  Dr.  Knowles 
one  day,  and  he  had  muttered  out  something 
about  its  being  "  the  life  of  the  dog,  Ma'am." 
She  wondered  what  he  meant  by  that!  She 
looked  over  at  his  bearish  figure,  snuff-d rabbled 
waistcoat,  and  shock  of  black  hair.  Well,  poor 
man,  he  could  not  help  it,  if  he  were  coarse,  and 

an  Abolitionist,  and  a  Fourierite,  and She 

was  getting  a  little  muddy  now,  she  was  con 
scious,  so  turned  her  mind  back  to  the  repose 
of  her  stocking.  Margret  took  it  very  quietly, 
seeing  her  father  flaming  so.  But  Margret 
never  had  any  opinions  to  express.  She  was 
not  like  the  Parnells :  they  were  noted  for  their 
clear  judgment.  Mrs.  Howth  was  a  Parnell. 

"The  combat  deepens,  — on,  ye  brave!  " 

The  Doctor's  fat,  leathery  face  was  quite  red 
now,  and  his  sentences  were  hurled  out  in  a 
sarcastic  bass,  enough  to  wither  the  marrow  of 
a  weak  man.  But  the  school-master  was  no 
weak  man.  His  foot  was  entirely  on  his  native 
heath,  I  assure  you.  He  knew  every  inch  of 


30  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

the  ground,  from  the  domination  of  the  absolute 
faith  in  the  ages  of  Fetichism,  to  its  pseudo- 
presentment  in  the  tenth  century,  and  its  actual 
subversion  in  the  nineteenth.  Every  step.  Our 
politicians  might  have  picked  up  an  idea  or  two 
there,  I  should  think !  Then  he  was  so  cool 
about  it,  so  skilful !  He  fairly  rubbed  his  hands 
with  glee,  enjoying  the  combat.  And  he  was  so 
sure  that  the  Doctor  was  savagely  in  earnest : 
why,  any  one  with  half  an  ear  could  hear  that! 
He  did  not  see  how,  in  the  very  heat  of  the  fray, 
his  eyes  would  wander  off  listlessly.  But  Mr. 
Howth  did  not  wander ;  there  was  nothing  care 
less  or  two-sided  in  the  making  of  this  man,  — 
no  sham  about  him,  or  borrowing.  They  came 
down  gradually,  or  out,  —  for,  as  I  told  you, 
they  dug  into  the  very  heart  of  the  matter  at 
first,  —  they  came  out  gradually  to  modern 
times.  Things  began  to  assume  a  more  fa 
miliar  aspect.  Spinoza,  Fichte,  Saint  Simon, 
—  one  heard  about  them  now.  If  you  could 
but  have  heard  the  school-master  deal  with  these 
his  enemies  !  With  what  tender  charity  for  the 
man,  what  relentless  vengeance  for  the  belief, 
he  pounced  on  them,  dragging  the  soul  out  of 
their  systems,  holding  it  up  for  slow  slaughter ! 
As  for  Humanity,  (how  Knowles  lingered  on 
that  word,  with  a  tenderness  curious  in  so  un 
couth  a  mass  of  flesh !)  —  as  for  Humanity,  it 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  31 

was  a  study  to  see  it  stripped  and  flouted  and 
thrown  out  of  doors  like  a  filthy  rag  by  this 
poor  old  Howth,  a  man  too  child-hearted  to  kill 
a  spider.  It  was  pleasanter  to  hear  him  when 
he  defended  the  great  Past  in  which  his  ideal 
truth  had  been  faintly  shadowed.  How  he 
caught  the  salient  tints  of  the  feudal  life! 
How  the  fine  womanly  nature  of  the  man  rose 
exulting  in  the  free  picturesque  glow  of  the  day 
of  crusader  and  heroic  deed  !  How  he  crowded 
in  traits  of  perfected  manhood  in  the  conqueror, 
simple  trust  in  the  serf,  to  colour  and  weaken 
his  argument,  not  seeing  that  he  weakened  it! 
How,  when  he  thought  he  had  cornered  the 
Doctor,  he  would  colour  and  laugh  like  a  boy, 
then  suddenly  check  himself,  lest  he  might 
wound  him!  A  curious  laugh,  genial,  cheery, 
—  bubbling  out  of  his  weak  voice  in  a  way 
that  put  you  in  mind  of  some  old  and  rare 
wine.  When  he  would  check  himself  in  one 
of  these  triumphant  glows,  he  would  turn  to 
the  Doctor  with  a  deprecatory  gravity,  and  for 
a  few  moments  be  almost  submissive  in  his 
reply.  So  earnest  and  worn  it  looked  then, 
the  poor  old  face,  in  the  dim  light !  The  black 
clothes  he  wore  were  so  threadbare  and  shining 
at  the  knees  and  elbows,  the  coarse  leather  shoes 
brought  to  so  fine  a  polish!  The  Doctor  idly 
wondered  who  had  blacked  them,  glancing  at 
Margret's  fingers. 

2* 


32  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

There  was  a  flower  stuck  in  the  button-hole 
of  the  school-master's  coat,  a  pale  tea-rose.  If 
Dr.  Knowles  had  been  a  man  of  fine  instincts, 
(which  his  opaque  shining  eyes  would  seem  to 
deny,)  he  might  have  thought  it  was  not  unapt 
or  ill-placed  even  in  the  shabby,  scuffed  coat.  A 
scholar,  a  gentleman,  though  in  patched  shoes 
and  trousers  a  world  too  short.  Old  and  gaunt, 
hunger-bitten  even  it  may  be,  with  loose-jointed, 
bony  limbs,  and  yellow  face ;  clinging,  loyal  and 
brave,  to  the  quaint,  delicate  fancies  of  his 
youth,  that  were  dust  and  ashes  to  other  men. 
In  the  very  haggard  face  you  could  find  the 
quiet  purity  of  the  child  he  had  been,  and  the 
old  child's  smile,  fresh  and  credulous,  on  the 
mouth. 

The  Doctor  had  not  spoken  for  a  moment. 
It  might  be  that  he  was  careless  of  the  poetic 
lights  with  which  Mr.  Howth  tenderly  decorated 
his  old  faith,  or  it  might  be,  that  even  he,  with 
the  terrible  intentness  of  a  real  life-purpose  in 
his  brain,  was  touched  by  the  picture  of  the  far 
old  chivalry,  dead  long  ago.  The  master's  voice 
grew  low  and  lingering  now.  It  was  a  labour 
of  love,  this.  Oh,  it  is  so  easy  to  go  back  out 
of  the  broil  of  dust  and  meanness  and  barter 
|into  the  clear  shadow  of  that  old  life  where  love 
and  bravery  stand  eternal  verities,  —  never  to  be 
bought  and  sold  in  that  dusty  town  yonder!  To 
go  back  ?  To  dream  back,  rather.  To  drag  out 


MARGEET  HOWTH.  33 

of  our  own  hearts,  as  the  hungry  old  master  did, 
whatever  is  truest  and  highest  there,  and  clothe 
it  with  name  and  deed  in  the  dim  days  of  chiv 
alry.  Make  a  poem  of  it,  —  so  much  easier 
than  to  make  a  life  ! 

Knowles  shuffled  uneasily,  watching  the  girl 
keenly,  to  know  how  the  picture  touched  her. 
Was,  then,  she  thought,  this  grand,  dead  Past 
so  shallow  to  him  ?  These  knights,  pure,  un 
stained,  searching  until  death  for  the  Holy 
Greal,  could  he  understand  the  life-long  agony, 
the  triumph  of  their  conflict  over  Self?  These 
women,  content  to  live  in  solitude  forever  be 
cause  they  once  had  loved,  could  any  man 
understand  that  ?  Or  the  dead  queen,  dead 
that  the  man  she  loved  might  be  free  and 
happy,  —  why,  this  was  life,  —  this  death!  But 
did  pain,  and  martyrdom,  and  victory  lie  back 
in  the  days  of  Galahad  and  Arthur  alone  ? 
The  homely  face  grew  stiller  than  before,  look 
ing  out  into  the  dun  sweep  of  moorland,  — 
cold,  unrevealing.  It  baffled  the  man  that 
looked  at  it.  He  shuffled,  chewed  tobacco 
vehemently,  tilted  his  chair  on  two  legs,  broke 
out  in  a  thunder-gust  at  last. 

"  Dead  days  for  dead  men !  The  world  hears 
a  bugle-call  to-day  more  noble  than  any  of  your 
piping  troubadours.  We  have  something  bet 
ter  to  fight  for  than  a  vacant  tomb." 


34  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

The  old  man  drew  himself  up  haughtily. 

"  I  know  what  you  would  say, —  Liberty  for 
the  low  and  vile.  It  is  a  good  word.  That 
was  a  better  which  they  hid  in  their  hearts  in 
the  old  time,  —  Honour  !  " 

Honour!  I  think,  Calvinist  though  he  was, 
that  word  was  his  religion.  Men  have  had 
worse.  Perhaps  the  Doctor  thought  this  ;  for 
he  rose  abruptly,  and,  leaning  on  the  old  man's 
chair,  said,  gently, — 

"  It  is  better,  even  here.  Yet  you  poison  this 
child's  mind.  You  make  her  despise  To-Day  ; 
make  honour  live  for  her  now." 

"  It  does  not,"  the  school-master  said,  bitterly. 
"  The  world's  a  failure.  All  the  great  old  dreams 
are  dead.  Your  own  phantom,  your  Republic, 
your  experiment  to  prove  that  all  men  are  born 
free  and  equal, —  what  is  it  to-day  ?  " 

Knowles  lifted  his  head,  looking  out  into  the 
brown  twilight.  Some  word  of  pregnant  mean 
ing  flashed  in  his  eye  and  trembled  on  his  lip  ; 
but  he  kept  it  back.  His  face  glowed,  though, 
and  the  glow  and  strength  gave  to  the  huge 
misshapen  features  a  grand  repose. 

"  You  talk  of  To-Day,"  the  old  man  contin 
ued,  querulously.  "  I  am  tired  of  it.  Here  is 
its  type  and  history,"  touching  a  county  news 
paper, —  "a  fair  type,  with  its  cant,  and  bigotry, 
and  weight  of  uncomprehended  fact.  Bargain 


MARGRET   HOWTH.  35 

and  sale.  —  it  taints  our  religion,  our  brains,  our 
flag?,  —  yours  and  mine,  Knowles,  with  the  rest. 
Did  you  never  hear  of  those  abject  spirits  who 
entered  neither  heaven  nor  hell,  who  were  nei 
ther  faithful  to  God  nor  rebellious,  caring  only 
for  themselves  1  " 

He  paused,  fairly  out  of  breath.  Margret 
looked  up.  Knowles  was  silent.  There  was 
a  smothered  look  of  pain  on  the  coarse  face  ; 
the  school-master's  words  were  sinking  deeper 
than  he  knew. 

"  No,  father,"  said  Margret,  hastily  ending  his 
quotation,  "  *  io  non  averei  creduto,  die  [vita] 
tanta  ri*  avesse  disfatta?  " 

Skilful  Margret!  The  broil  must  have  been 
turbid  in  the  old  man's  brain  which  the  grand, 
slow-stepping  music  of  the  Florentine  could  not 
calm.  She  had  learned  that  long  ago,  and  used 
it  as  a  nurse  does  some  old  song  to  quiet  her 
pettish  infant.  His  face  brightened  instantly. 

"  Do  not  believe,  then,  child,"  he  said,  after  a 
pause.  "  It  is  a  noble  doubt,  in  Dante  or  in 
you." 

The  Doctor  had  turned  away ;  she  could  not 
see  his  face.  The  angry  scorn  was  gone  from 
the  old  master's  countenance ;  it  was  bent  with 
its  usual  wistful  eagerness  on  the  floor.  A  mo 
ment  after  he  looked  up  with  a  flickering  smile. 

"  *  Quorate  P  altissimo  poeta  ! '  "  he  said,  gen- 


36  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

tly  lifting  his  finger  to  his  forehead  in  a  military 
fashion.  "  Where  is  my  cane,  Margret  ?  The 
Doctor  and  I  will  go  and  walk  on  the  porch  be 
fore  it  grows  dark." 

The  sun  had  gone  down  long  before,  and 
the  stars  were  out ;  but  no  one  spoke  of  this. 
Knowles  lighted  the  school-master's  pipe  and  his 
own  cigar,  and  then  moved  the  chairs  out  of 
their  way,  stepping  softly  that  the  old  man 
might  not  hear  him.  Margret,  in  the  room, 
watched  them  as  they  went,  seeing  how  gentle 
the  rough,  burly  man  was  with  her  father,  and 
how,  every  time  they  passed  the  sweet-brier,  he 
bent  the  branches  aside,  that  they  might  not 
touch  his  face.  Slow,  childish  tears  came  into 
her  eyes  as  she  saw  it ;  for  the  school-master 
was  blind.  This  had  been  their  regular  walk 
every  evening,  since  it  grew  too  cold  for  them 
to  go  down  under  the  lindens.  The  Doctor  had 
not  missed  a  night  since  her  father  gave  up  the 
school,  a  month  ago  :  at  first,  under  pretence  of 
attending  to  his  eyes  ;  but  since  the  day  he  had 
told  them  there  was  no  hope  of  cure,  he  had 
never  spoken  of  it  again.  Only,  since  then, 
he  had  grown  doubly  quarrelsome,  —  standing 
ready  armed  to  dispute  with  the  old  man  every 
inch  of  every  subject  in  earth  or  air,  keeping 
the  old  man  in  a  state  of  boyish  excitement  dur 
ing  the  long,  idle  days,  looking  forward  to  this 
nightly  battle. 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  37 

It  was  very  still ;  for  the  house,  with  its  half- 
dozen  acres,  lay  in  an  angle  of  the  hills,  look 
ing  out  on  the  river,  which  shut  out  all  dis 
tant  noises.  Only  the  men's  footsteps  broke 
the  silence,  passing  and  repassing  the  window. 
Without,  the  October  starlight  lay  white  and 
frosty  on  the  moors,  the  old  barn,  the  sharp, 
dark  hills,  and  the  river,  which  was  half  hidden 
by  the  orchard.  One  could  hear  it,  like  some 
huge  giant  moaning  in  his  sleep,  at  times,  and 
see  broad  patches  of  steel  blue  glittering  through 
the  thick  apple-trees  and  the  bushes.  Her  moth- 
e~r  had  fallen  into  a  doze.  Margret  looked  at 
her,  thinking  how  sallow  the  plump,  fair  face 
had  grown,  and  how  faded  the  kindly  blue  eyes 
were  now.  Dim  with  crying,  —  she  knew  that, 
though  she  never  saw  her  shed  a  tear.  Always 
cheery,  going  placidly  about  the  house  in  her 
gray  dress  and  Quaker  cap,  as  if  there  were  no 
such  things  in  the  world  as  debt  or  blindness. 
But  Margret  knew,  though  she  said  nothing. 
When  her  mother  came  in  from  those  wonder 
ful  foraging  expeditions  in  search  of  late  pease 
or  corn,  she  could  see  the  swollen  circle  round 
the  eyes,  and  hear  her  breath  like  that  of  a  child 
which  has  sobbed  itself  tired.  Then,  one  night, 
when  she  had  gone  into  her  mother's  room,  after 
she  was  in  bed,  the  blue  eyes  were  set  in  a  wild, 
hopeless  way,  as  if  staring  down  into  years  of 


38  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

starvation  and  misery.  The  fire  on  the  hearth 
burned  low  and  clear ;  the  old  worn  furniture 
stood  out  cheerfully  in  the  red  glow,  and  threw 
a  maze  of  twisted  shadow  on  the  floor.  But  the 
glow  was  all  that  was  cheerful.  To-morrow, 
when  the  hard  daylight  should  jeer  away  the 
screening  shadows,  it  would  unbare  a  desolate, 
shabby  home.  She  knew ;  struck  with  the  white 
leprosy  of  poverty ;  the  blank  walls,  the  faded 
hangings,  the  old  stone  house  itself,  looking 
vacantly  out  on  the  fields  with  a  pitiful  signifi 
cance  of  loss.  Upon  the  mantel-shelf  there  was 
a  small  marble  figure,  one  of  the  Dancing  Graced: 
the  other  two  were  gone,  gone  in  pledge.  This 
one  was  left,  twirling  her  foot,  and  stretching 
out  her  hands  in  a  dreary  sort  of  ecstasy,  with 
no  one  to  respond.  For  a  moment,  so  empty 
and  bitter  seemed  her  home  and  her  life,  that 
she  thought  the  lonely  dancer  with  her  flaunting 
joy  mocked  her,  —  taunted  them  with  the  slow, 
gray  desolation  that  had  been  creeping  on  them 
for  years.  Only  for  a  moment  the  morbid  fancy 
hurt  her. 

The  red  glow  was  healthier,  suited  her  tem 
perament  better.  She  chose  to  fancy  the  house 
as  it  had  been  once,  —  should  be  again,  please 
God.  She  chose  to  see  the  old  comfort  and  the 
old  beauty  which  the  poor  school-master  had 
gathered  about  their  home.  Gone  now.  But 


MARGRET   HOWTH.  39 

it  should  return.  It  was  well,  perhaps,  that  he 
was  blind,  he  knew  so  little  of  what  had  come 
on  them.  There,  where  the  black  marks  were 
on  the  wall,  there  had  hung  two  pictures. 
Margret  and  her  father  religiously  believed  them 
to  be  a  Tintoret  and  Copley.  Well,  they  were 
gone  now.  He  had  been  used  to  dust  them 
with  a  light  brush  every  morning,  himself,  but 
now  he  said,  — 

"  You  can  clean  the  pictures  to-day,  Margret. 
Be  careful,  my  child." 

And  Margret  would  remember  the  greasy 
Irishman  who  had  tucked  them  under  his  arm, 
and  flung  them  into  a  cart,  her  blood  growing 
hotter  in  her  veins. 

It  was  the  same  through  all  the  house ;  there 
was  not  a  niche  in  the  bare  rooms  that  did  not 
recall  a  something  gone,  —  something  that  should 
return.  She  willed  that,  that  evening,  standing 
by  the  dim  fire.  What  women  will,  whose  eyes 
are  slow,  attentive,  still,  as  this  Margret's,  usually 
comes  to  pass. 

The  red  fire-glow  suited  her  ;  another  glow, 
warming  her  floating  fancy,  mingled  with  it, 
giving  her  every-day  purpose  the  trait  of  hero 
ism.  The  old  spirit  of  the  dead  chivalry,  of 
succour  to  the  weak,  life-long  self-denial,  —  did 
it  need  the  sand  waste  of  Palestine  or  a  tour 
nament  to  call  it  into  life  ?  Down  in  that 


40  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

trading  town,  in  the  thick  of  its  mills  and 
y  drays,  it  could  live,  she  thought.  That  very 
night,  perhaps,  in  some  of  those  fetid  cellars  or 
sunken  shanties,  there  were  vigils  kept  of  pur 
pose  as  unselfish,  prayer  as  heaven-command 
ing,  as  that  of  the  old  aspirants  for  knighthood. 
She,  too,  —  her  quiet  face  stirred  with  a  simple, 
childish  smile,  like  her  father's. 

u  Why,  mother!"  she  said,  stroking  down  the 
gray  hair  under  the  cap,  "shall  you  sleep  here 
all  night  ?  "  laughing. 

A  cheery,  tender  laugh,  this  woman's  was, — 
seldom  heard,  —  not  far  from  tears. 

Mrs.  Howth  roused  herself.  Just  then,  a 
broad,  high-shouldered  man,  in  a  gray  flannel 
shirt,  and  shoes  redolent  of  the  stable,  appeared 
at  the  door.  Margret  looked  at  him  as  if  he 
were  an  accusing  spirit,  —  coming  down,  as 
woman  must,  from  heights  of  self-renunciation 
or  bold  resolve,  to  an  undarned  stocking  or  an 
uncooked  meal. 

"  Kittle  's  b'ilin',"  he  announced,  flinging  in 
the  information  as  a  general  gratuity. 

"  That  will  do,  Joel,"  said  Mrs.  Howth. 

The  tone  of  stately  blandness  which  Mrs. 
Howth  erected  as  a  shield  between  herself  and 
"  that  class  of  people  "  was  a  study  :  a  success ; 
the  resume  of  her  experience  in  the  combat  that 
had  devoured  half  her  life,  like  that  of  other 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  41 

< 

American  house-keepers.  "  Be  gentle,  but  let 
them  know  their  place,  my  dear !  "  The  class 
having  its  type  and  exponent  in  Joel,  stopped 
at  the  door,  and  hitched  up  its  suspenders. 

"  That  will  do,  Joel,"  with  a  stern  suavity. 

Some  idea  was  in  Joel's  head  under  the  brush 
of  red  hair,  —  probably  the  "  anarchic  element." 

"  Uh  was  wishin'  toh  read  the  G'zette." 
Whereupon  he  advanced  into  the  teeth  of  the 
enemy  and  bore  off  the  newspaper,  going  be 
fore  Margret,  as  she  went  to  the  kitchen,  and 
seating  himself  beside  a  flaring  tallow-candle 
on  the  table. 

Reading,  with  Joel,  was  not  the  idle  pas 
time  that  more  trivial  minds  find  it ;  a  thing, 
on  the  contrary,  to  be  gone  into  with  slow 
spelling,  and  face  knitted  up  into  savage  stern 
ness,  especially  now,  when,  as  he  gravely  ex 
plained  to  Margret,  "  in  his  opinion  the  crissis 
was  jest  at  hand,  and  ev'ry  man  must  be  seein* 
ef  the  gover'ment  was  carryin'  out  the  views  of 
the  people." 

With  which  intent,  Joel,  in  company  with 
five  thousand  other  sovereigns,  consulted,  asx\ 
definitive  oracle,  "  The  Daily  Gazette  "  of  Tow- 
bridge.  The  school-master  need  not  have  grum 
bled  for  the  old  time:  feodality  in  the  days  of 
Warwick  and  of  "  The  Daily  Gazette  "  was  not 
so  widely  different  as  he  and  'Joel  thought. 


42  MARGRET   HOWTH. 

Now  and  then,  partly  as  an  escape-valve  for 
.his  overcharged  conviction,  partly  in  compas 
sion  to  the  ignorance  of  women  in  political 
economics,  he  threw  off  to  Margret  divers  com 
mentaries  on  the  text,  as  she  passed  in  and 
out. 

If  she  had  risen  to  the  full  level  of  Joel's 
views,  she  might  have  considered  these  views 
tinctured  with  radicalism,  as  they  consisted  in 
the  propriety  of  the  immediate  "  impinging  of 
the  President."  Besides,  (Joel  was  a  good-na 
tured  man,  too,  merciful  to  his  beast,)  Nero-like, 
he  wished,  with  the  tiger  drop  of  blood  that  lies 
hid  in  everybody's  heart,  that  the  few  millions 
who  differed  with  himself  and  the  "  Gazette " 
had  but  one  neck  for  their  more  convenient 
hanging,  "  It's  all  that  '11  save  the  kentry,"  he 
said,  and  believed  it,  too. 

If  Margret  fell  suddenly  from  the  peak  of 
out-look  on  life  to  the  homely  labor  of  cooking 
supper,  some  of  the  healthy  heroic  flush  of  the 
knightly  days  and  the  hearth -fire  went  down 
with  her,  I  think.  It  brightened  and  reddened 
the  square  kitchen  with  its  cracked  stove  and 
meagre  array  of  tins  ;  she  bustled  about  in  her 
quaint  way,  as  if  it  had  been  filled  up  and  run 
ning  over  with  comforts.  It  brightened  and 
reddened  her  face  when  she  came  in  to  put  the 
last  dish  on  the  table,  —  a  cosey,  snug  table,  set 


MARGRET   HOWTH.  43 

for  four.  Heroic  dreams  with  poets,  I  suppose, 
make  them  unfit  for  food  other  than  some  feast 
such  as  Eve  set  for  the  angel.  But  then  Mar- 
gret  was  no  poet.  So,  with  the  kindling  of  her 
hope,  its  healthful  light  struck  out,  and  warmed 
and  glorified  these  common  things.  Such  com 
mon  things  !  Only  a  coarse  white  cloth,  re 
deemed  by  neither  silver  nor  china,  the  amber 
coffee,  (some  that  Knowles  had  brought  out  to 
her  father,  —  "  thrown  on  his  hands  ;  he  could 
n't  use  it,  —  product  of  slave-labour  !  —  never, 
Sir ! ")  the  delicate  brown  fish  that  Joel  had 
caught,  the  bread  her  mother  had  made,  the 
golden  butter,  —  all  of  them  touched  her  nerves 
with  a  quick  sense  of  beauty  and  pleasure. 
And  more,  the  gaunt  face  of  the  blind  old  man, 
his  bony  hand  trembling  as  he  raised  the  cup  to 
his  lips,  her  mother  and  the  Doctor  managing 
silently  to  place  everything  he  liked  best  near 
his  plate.  Was  n't  it  all  part  of  the  fresh, 
hopeful  glow  burning  in  her  consciousness  ? 
It  brightened  and  deepened.  It  blotted  out  the 
hard,  dusty  path  of  the  future,  and  showed 
warm  and  clear  the  success  at  the  end.  Not 
much  to  show,  you  think.  Only  the  old  home 
as  it  once  was,  full  of  quiet  laughter  and  con 
tent;  only  her  mother's  eyes  clear  shining  again; 
only  that  gaunt  old  head  raised  proudly,  owing 
no  man  anything  but  courtesy.  The  glow  deep- 


44  MARGRET   HOWTH. 

ened,  as  she  thought  of  it.  It  was  strange,  too, 
that,  with  the  deep,  slow-moving  nature  of  this 
girl,  she  should  have  striven  so  eagerly  to  throw 
this  light  over  the  future.  Commoner  natures 
have  done  more  and  hoped  less.  It  was  a  poor 
gift,  you  think,  this  of  the  labour  of  a  life  for 
so  plain  a  duty  ;  hardly  heroic.  She  knew  it. 
Yet,  if  there  lay  in  this  coming  labour  any  pain, 
any  wearing  effort,  she  clung  to  it  desperately, 
as  if  this  should  banish,  it  might  be,  worse  loss. 
She  tried  desperately,  I  say,  to  clutch  the  far, 
uncertain  hope  at  the  end,  to  make  happiness 
out  of  it,  to  give  it  to  her  silent  gnawing  heart 
to  feed  on.  She  thrust  out  of  sight  all  possible 
life  that  might  have  called  her  true  self  into  be 
ing,  and  clung  to  this  present  shallow  duty  and 
shallow  reward,  Pitiful  and  vain  so  to  cling! 
It  is  the  way  of  women.  As  if  any  human 
soul  could  bury  that  which  might  have  been, 
in  that  which  is ! 

The  Doctor,  peering  into   her   thought  with 
sharp,   suspicious    eyes,    heeded    the    transient 
flush  of  enthusiasm  but  little.     Even  the  pleas 
ant  cheery  talk  that  pleased  her  father  so  was 
but   surface-deep,    he    knew.      The   woman    he 
5   must  conquer    for    his    great   end   lay  beneath, 
\  park  and   cold.     It  was   only  for   that  end   he 
cared  for  her.     Through  what  cold  depths   of 
solitude  her  soul  breathed  faintly  mattered  lit- 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  45 

tie.  Yet  an  idle  fancy  touched  him,  what  a 
triumph  the  man  had  gained,  whoever  he  might 
be,  who  had  held  the  master-key  to  a  nature  so 
rare  as  this,  who  had  the  kingly  power  in  his 
hand  to  break  its  silence  into  electric  shivers  of 
laughter  and  tears,  —  terrible  subtile  pain,  or 
joy  as  terrible.  Did  he  hold  the  power  still  ?  he 
wondered.  Meanwhile  she  sat  there,  unread. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  evening  came  on,  slow  and  cold.  Life 
itself,  the  Doctor  thought,  impatiently,  was  cool 
and  tardy  here  among  the  hills.  Even  he  fell 
into  the  tranquil  tone,  and  chafed  under  it. 
Nowhere  else  did  the  evening  gray  and  sombre 
into  the  mysterious  night  impalpably  as  here. 
The  quiet,  wide  and  deep,  folded  him  in,  forced 
his  trivial  heat  into  silence  and  thought.  The 
world  seemed  to  think  there.  Quiet  in  the 
dead  seas  of  fog,  that  filled  the  valleys  like 
restless  vapour  curdled  into  silence ;  quiet  in  the 
listening  air,  stretching  gray  up  to  the  stars, — 
in  the  solemn  mountains,  that  stood  motionless, 
like  hoary-headed  prophets,  waiting  with  uplifted 
hands,  day  and  night,  to  hear  the  Voice,  silent 
now  for  centuries  ;  the  very  air,  heavy  with  the 
breath  of  the  sleeping  pine-forests,  moved  slowly 
and  cold,  like  some  human  voice  weary  with 
preaching  to  unbelieving  hearts  of  a  peace  on 
earth.  This  man's  heart  was  unbelieving ;  he 
chafed  in  the  oppressive  quiet ;  it  was  unfeeling 
mockery  to  a  sick  and  hungry  world,  —  a  dead 
torpor  of  indifference.  Years  of  hot  and  turbid 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  47 

* 

pain  had  dulled  his  eyes  to  the  eternal  secret  of' 
the  night ;  his  soul  was  too  sore  with  stumbling, 
stung,  inflamed  with  the  needs  and  suffering  of 
the  countless  lives  that  hemmed  him  in,  to  ac 
cept  the  great  prophetic  calm.  He  was  blind 
to  the  prophecy  written  on  the  earth  since  the 
day  God  first  bade  it  tell  thwarted  man  of  the 
great  To- Morrow. 

He  turned  from  the  night  in-doors.  Human 
hearts  were  his  proper  study.  The  old  house, 
he  thought,  slept  with  the  rest.  One  did  not 
wonder  that  the  pendulum  of  the  clock  swung 
long  and  slow.  The  frantic,  nervous  haste  of 
town-clocks  chorded  better  with  the  pulse  of 
human  life.  Yet  life  in  the  veins  of  these 
people  flowed  slow  and  cool;  their  sorrows 
and  joys  were  few  and  life-long.  The  endur 
ing  air  suited  this  woman,  Margret  Howth. 
Her  blood  could  never  ebb  or  flow  with  sudden 
gusts  of  passion,  like  his  own,  throbbing,  heat 
ing  continually:  one  current,  absorbing,  deep, 
would  carry  its  tide  from  one  eternity  to  the 
other,  one  love  or  one  hate.  Whatever  power 
was  in  the  tide  should  be  his,  in  its  entirety. 
It  was  his  right.  Was  not  his  aim  high,  the 
highest?  It  was  his  right. 

Margret,  looking  up,  saw  the  man's  eye  fixed 
on  her.  She  met  it  coolly.  All  her  short  life, 
this  strange  man,  so  tender  to  the  weak,  had 


48         ^  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

4 

watched  her  with  a  sort  of  savage  scorn,  sneer 
ing  at  her  childish,  dreamy  apathy,  driving  her 
from  effort  to  effort  with  a  scourge  of  contempt. 
What  did  he  want  now  with  her?  Her  duty 
was  light;  she  took  it  up,  —  she  was  glad  to 
take  it  up  ;  what  more  would  he  have  ?  She 
put  the  whole  matter  away  from  her. 

It  grew  late.  She  sat  down  by  the  lamp  and 
began  to  read  to  her  father,  as  usual.  Her 
mother  put  away  her  knitting;  Joel  came  in 
half-asleep ;  the  Doctor  put  out  his  everlasting 
cigar,  and  listened,  as  he  did  everything  else, 
intently.  It  was  an  old  story  that  she  read,  — 
the  story  of  a  man  who  walked  the  fields  and 
crowded  streets  of  Galilee  eighteen  hundred 
years  ago.  Knowles,  with  his  heated  brain, 
fancied  that  the  silence  without  in  the  night 
grew  deeper,  that  the  slow-moving  air  stopped 
in  its  course  to  listen.  Perhaps  the  simple  story 
carried  a  deeper  meaning  to  these  brooding 
mountains  and  solemn  sky  than  to  the  purblind 
hearts  within.  It  was  a  far-off  story  to  them,  — 
very  far  off.  The  old  school-master  heard  it  with 
a  lowered  head,  with  the  proud  obedience  with 
which  a  cavalier  would  receive  his  leader's  or 
ders.  Was  not  the  leader  a  knight,  the  knight 
of  truest  courage  ?  All  that  was  high,  chivalric 
in  the  old  man  sprang  up  to  own  him  Lord. 
That  he  not  only  preached  to,  but  ate  and 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  49 

| 

drank  with  publicans  and  sinners,  was  a  re 
quirement  of  his  mission ;  nowadays  . 

Joel  heard  the  "  good  word  "  with  a  bewildered 
consciousness  of  certain  rules  of  honesty  to  be 
observed  next  day,  and  a  maze  of  crowns  and 
harps  shining  somewhere  beyond.  As  for  any 
immediate  connection  between  the  teachings  of 
this  book  and  "  The  Daily  Gazette,"  it  was 
pure  blasphemy  to  think  of  it.  The  Lord  held 
those  old  Jews  in  His  hand,  of  course ;  but  as 
for  the  election  next  month,  that  was  quite 
another  thing.  If  Joel  thrust  the  history  out 
of  the  touch  of  common  life,  the  Doctor  brought 
it  down,  and  held  it  there  on  trial.  To  him  it 
was  the  story  of  a  Reformer  who,  eighteen  cen 
turies  ago,  had  served  his  day.  Could  he  serve 
this  day  ?  Could  he  ?  The  need  was  desperate. 
Was  there  anything  in  this  Christianity,  freed 
from  bigotry,  to  work  out  the  awful  problem 
which  the  ages  had  left  for  America  to  solve  ? 
He  doubted  it.  People  called  this  old  Knowles 
an  infidel,  said  his  brain  was  as  unnatural  and 
distorted  as  his  body.  God,  looking  down  into 
his  heart  that  night,  saw  the  savage  wrestling 
there,  and  judged  him  with  other  eyes  than 
theirs. 

The  story  stood  alive  in  his  throbbing  brain, 
demanding  hearing.  All  things  were  real  to 
this  man,  this  uncouth  mass  of  flesh  that  his 


50  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

companions  sneered  at;  most  real  of  all,  the 
unhelped  pain  of  life,  the  great  seething  mire 
of  dumb  wretchedness  in  streets  and  alleys,  the 
cry  for  aid  from  the  starved  souls  of  the  world. 
You  and  I  have  other  work  to  do  than  to  listen, 
—  pleasanter.  But  he,  coming  out  of  the  mire, 
his  veins  thick  with  the  blood  of  a  despised  race, 
had  carried  up  their  pain  and  hunger  with  him  : 
it  was  the  most  real  thing  on  earth  to  him,  — 
more  real  than  his  own  share  in  the  unseen 
heaven  or  hell.  By  the  reality,  the  peril  of  the 
world's  instant  need,  he  tried  the  offered  help 
from  Calvary.  It  was  the  work  of  years,  not 
of  this  night.  Perhaps,  if  they  who  preach 
Christ  crucified  had  doubted  him  as  this  man 
did,  their  work  in  the  coming  heaven  might  be 
higher,  —  and  ours,  who  hear  them.  When  the 
girl  had  finished  reading,  she  went  out  into  the 
cool  air.  The  Doctor  passed  her  without  no 
tice.  He  went,  in  his  lumbering  way,  down  the 
hill  into  the  city ;  glad  to  go  ;  the  trustful,  wait 
ing  quiet  oppressed,  taunted  him.  It  sent  him 
back  more  mad  against  Destiny,  his  heart  more 
bitter  in  its  great  pity.  Let  him  go  to  the  great 
city,  with  its  stifling  gambling-hells,  its  negro- 
pens,  its  foul  cellars;  —  his  place  and  work.  If 
he  stumble  blindly  against  unconquerable  ills, 
and  die,  others  have  so  stumbled  and  so  died. 
Do  you  think  their  work  is  lost  ? 


MARGRET    HOWTH.  51 

Margret  stood  looking  down  at  the  sloping 
moors  and  fog.  She,  too,  had  her  place  and 
work.  She  thought  that  night  she  saw  it 
clearly,  and  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  it,  as  I  said. 
They  plodded  steadily  down  the  wide  years 
opening  before  her.  Whatever  slow,  unending 
toil  lay  in  them,  whatever  hungry  loneliness,  or 
coarseness  of  deed,  she  saw  it  all,  shrinking 
from  nothing.  She  looked  at  the  big  blue-corded 
veins  in  her  wrist,  full  of  untainted  blood, — 
gauged  herself  coolly,  her  lease  of  life,  her 
power  of  endurance,  —  measured  it  out  against 
the  work  waiting  for  her.  No  short  task,  she 
knew  that.  She  would  be  old  before  it  was  fin 
ished,  quite  an  old  woman,  hard,  mechanical, 
worn  out.  But  the  day  would  be  so  bright,  when 
it  came,  it  would  atone  for  all :  the  day  would 
be  bright,  the  home  warm  again  ;  it  would 
hold  all  that  life  had  promised  her  of  good. 

All  ?  Oh,  Margret,  Margret !  Was  there  no 
sullen  doubt  in  the  brave  resolve  ?  Was  there 
no  shadow  just  then,  dark,  ironical,  blotting  out 
father  and  mother  and  home,  creeping  nearer, 
less  alien  to  your  soul  than  these,  than  even 
your  God  ? 

If  any  such  cold,  masterful  shadow  rose  out 
of  years  gone,  and  clutched  at  the  truest  life 
of  her  heart,  she  stifled  it,  and  thrust  it  down. 
And  yet,'  leaning  on  the  gate,  and  thinking  va- 


52  MARGRET    HOWTH. 

cantly,  she  remembered  a  time  when  through 
that  shadow,  she  believed  more  in  a  God  than 
she  did  now.  When,  by  the  help  of  that  very 
dead  hope,  He  of  whom  she  read  to-night  stood 
close,  an  infinitely  tender  Helper,  that  with 
the  differing  human  loves  she  knew,  had  loved 
His  mother  and  Mary.  Therefore,  a  Helper. 
Now,  struggle  as  she  would  for  warmth  or 
healthy  hopes,  the  world  was  gray  and  silent. 
Her  defeated  woman's  nature  called  it  so,  bit 
terly.  Christ  was  a  dim,  ideal  power,  heaven 
far-off.  She  doubted  if  it  held  anything  as  real 
as  that  which  she  had  lost. 

As  if  to  bring  back  the  old  times  more  vividly 
to  her,  there  happened  one  of  those  curious  little 
coincidences  with  which  Fate,  we  think,  has 
nothing  to  do.  She  heard  a  quick  step  along 
the  clay  road,  and  a  muddy  little  terrier  jumped 
up,  barking,  beside  her.  She  stopped  with  a 
suddenness  strange  in  her  slow  movements. 
"  Tiger  /"  she  said,  stroking  its  head  with  pas 
sionate  eagerness.  The  dog  licked  her  hand, 
smelt  her  clothes  to  know  if  she  were  the  same  : 
it  was  two  years  since  he  had  seen  her.  She  sat 
there,  softly  stroking  him.  Presently  there  was 
a  sound  of  wheels  jogging  down  the  road,  and 
a  voice  singing  snatches  of  some  song,  one  of 
those  cheery  street-songs  that  the  boys  whistle. 
It  was  a  low,  weak  voice,  but  very  pleasant. 


MARGRET   HOWTH.  53 

Margret  heard  it  through  the  dark  :  she  kissed 
the  dog  with  a  strange  paleness  on  her  face,  and 
stood  up,  quiet,  attentive  as  before.  Tiger  still 
kept  licking  her  hand,  as  it  hung  by  her  side  :  it 
was  cold,  and  trembled  as  he  touched  it.  She 
waited  a  moment,  then  pushed  him  from  her,  as 
if  his  touch,  even,  caused  her  to  break  some  vow. 
He  whined,  but  she  hurried  away,  not  waiting 
to  know  how  he  came,  or  with  whom.  Perhaps, 
if  Dr.  Knowles  had  seen  her  face  as  she  looked 
back  at  him,  he  would  have  thought  there  were 
depths  in  her  nature  which  his  probing  eyes  had 
never  reached. 

The  wheels  came  close,  and  directly  a  cart 
stopped  at  the  gate.  It  was  one  of  those  little 
wagons  that  hucksters  drive ;  only  this  seemed 
to  be  a  home-made  affair,  patched  up  with 
wicker-work  and  bits  of  board.  It  was  piled  up 
with  baskets  of  vegetables,  eggs,  and  chickens, 
and  on  a  broken  bench  in  the  middle  sat  the 
driver,  a  woman.  You  could  not  help  laughing, 
when  you  looked  at  the  whole  turn-out,  it  had 
such  a  make-shift  look  altogether.  The  reins 
were  twisted  rope,  the  wheels  uneven.  It  went 
jolting  along  in  such  a  careless,  jolly  way,  as  if 
it  would  not  care  in  the  least,  should  it  go  to 
pieces  any  minute  just  there  in  the  road.  The 
donkey  that  drew  it  was  bony  and  blind  of  one 
eye  ;  but  he  winked  the  other  knowingly  at  you, 


54  MARGRET   HOWTH. 

to  ask  if  you  saw  the  joke  of  the  thing.  Even 
the  voice  of  the  owner  of  the  establishment, 
chirruping  some  idle  song,  as  I  told  you,  was 
one  of  the  cheeriest  sounds  you  ever  heard. 
Joel,  up  at  the  barn,  forgot  his  dignity  to  salute 
it  with  a  prolonged  "  Hillo !  "  and  presently  ap 
peared  at  the  gate. 

"  I  'm  late,  Joel,"  said  the  weak  voice.  It 
sounded  like  a  child's,  near  at  hand. 

"  We  can  trade  in  the  dark,  Lois,  both  bein' 
honest,"  he  responded,  graciously,  hoisting  a 
basket  of  tomatoes  into  the  cart,  and  taking  out 
a  jug  of  vinegar. 

"  Is  that  Lois  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Howth,  coming  to 
the  gate.  «  Sit  still,  child.  Don't  get  down." 

But  the  child,  as  she  called  her,  had  scrambled 
off  the  cart,  and  stood  beside  her,  leaning  on  the 
wheel,  for  she  was  helplessly  crippled. 

"  I  thought  you  would  be  down  to-night.  I 
put  some  coffee  on  the  stove.  Bring  it  out, 
Joel." 

Mrs.  Howth  never  put  up  the  shield  between 
herself  and  this  member  of  "  the  class,"  —  be 
cause,  perhaps,  she  was  so  wretchedly  low  in 
the  social  scale.  However,  I  suppose  she  never 
gave  a  reason  for  it  even  to  herself.  Nobody 
could  help  being  kind  to  Lois,  even  if  he  tried. 
Joel  brought  the  coffee  with  more  readiness  than 
he  would  have  waited  on  Mrs.  Howth. 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  55 

"  Barney  will  be  jealous,"  he  said,  patting  the 
bare  ribs  of  the  old  donkey,  and  glancing  wist 
fully  at  his  mistress. 

"  Give  him  his  supper,  surely,"  she  said,  tak 
ing  the  hint. 

It  was  a  real  treat  to  see  how  Lois  enjoyed 
her  supper,  sipping  and  tasting  the  warm  coffee, 
her  face  in  a  glow,  like  an  epicure  over  some 
rare  Falernian.  You  would  be  sure,  from  just 
that  little  thing^  that  no  sparkle  of  warmth  or 
pleasure  in  the  world  slipped  by  her  which  she 
did  not  catch  and  enjoy  and  be  thankful  for  to 
the  uttermost.  You  would  think,  perhaps,  piti 
fully,  that  not  much  pleasure  or  warmth  would 
ever  go  down  so  low,  within  her  reach.  Now 
that  she  stood  on  the  ground,  she  scarcely  came 
up  to  the  level  of  the  wheel. ;  some  deformity  of 
her  legs  made  her  walk  with  a  curious  rolling 
jerk,  very  comical  to  see.  She  laughed  at  it, 
when  other  people  did  ;  if  it  vexed  her  at  all, 
she  never  showed  it.  She  had  turned  back  her 
calico  sun-bonnet,  and  stood  looking  up  at  Mrs. 
Howth  and  Joel,  laughing  as  they  talked  with 
her.  The  face  would  have  startled  you  on  so 
old  and  stunted  a  body.  It  was  a  child's  face, 
quick,  eager,  with  that  pitiful  beauty  you  al 
ways  see  in  deformed  people.  Her  eyes,  I 
think,  were  the  kindliest,  the  hopefullest  I  ever 
saw.  Nothing  but  the  livid  thickness  of  her 

3* 


56  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

skin  betrayed  the  fact  that  set  Lois  apart  from 
even  the  poorest  poor,  —  the  taint  in  her  veins 
0  V  of  black  blood. 

"  Whoy !  be  n't  this  Tiger  ?  "  said  Joel,  as  the 
dog  ran  yelping  about  him.  "  How  corned  yoh 
with  him,  Lois  ?  " 

"  Tiger  an'  his  master's  good  friends  o'  mine, 
—  you  remember  they  allus  was.  An'  he 's 
back  now,  Mr.  Holmes,  —  been  back  for  a 
month." 

Margret,  walking  in  the  porch  with  her  father, 
stopped. 

"  Are  you  tired,  father  ?     It  is  late." 

"  And  you  are  worn  out,  poor  child  !  It  was 
selfish  in  me  to  forget.  Good-night,  dear !  " 

Margret  kissed  him,  laughing  cheerfully,  as 
she  led  him  to  his  room-door.  He  lingered, 
holding  her  dress. 

"  Perhaps  it  will  be  easier  for  you  to-morrow 
than  it  was  to-day  ?  "  hesitating. 

"  I  am  sure  it  will.  To-morrow  will  be  sure 
to  be  better  than  to-day." 

She  left  him,  and  went  away  with  a  step  that 
did  not  echo  the  promise  of  her  words. 

Joel,  meanwhile,  consulted  apart  with  his  mis 
tress. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  emphatically.  —  "  You 
must  stay  until  morning,  Lois.  It  is  too  late. 
Joel  will  toss  you  up  a  bed  in  the  loft." 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  57 

The  queer  little  body  hesitated. 

"  I  can  stay,"  she  said,  at  last.  "  It  Js  his 
watch  at  the  mill  to-night." 

"  Whose  watch  ?  "  demanded  Joel. 

Her  face  brightened. 

"  Father's.     He  's  back,  mum." 

Joel  caught  himself  in  a  whistle. 

"  He 's  very  stiddy,  Joel,  —  as  stiddy  as  yoh." 

"  I  am  very  glad  he  has  come  back,  Lois," 
said  Mrs.  Howth,  gravely. 

At  every  place  where  Lois  had  been  that  day 
she  had  told  her  bit  of  good  news,  and  at  every 
place  it  had  been  met  with  the  same  kindly 
smile  and  "  I  'm  glad  he  's  back,  Lois." 

Yet  Joe  Yare,  fresh  from  two  years  in  the 
penitentiary,  was  not  exactly  the  person  whom 
society  usually  welcomes  with  open  arms.  Lois 
had  a  vague  suspicion  of  this,  perhaps ;  for,  as 
she  hobbled  along  the  path,  she  added  to  her 
own  assurance  of  his  "  stiddiness "  earnest  ex 
planations  to  Joel  of  how  he  had  a  place  in  the 
Croft  Street  woollen-mills,  and  how  Dr.  Knowles 
had  said  he  was  as  ready  a  stoker  as  any  in  the 
furnace-rooms. 

The  sound  of  her  weak,  eager  voice  was  si 
lent  presently,  and  nothing  broke  the  solitary 
cold  of  the  night. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

THE  morning,  when  it  came  long  after,  came 
quiet  and  cool,  —  the  warm  red  dawn  helplessly 
smothered  under  great  waves  of  gray  cloud. 
Margret,  looking  out  into  the  thick  fog,  lay 
down  wearily  again,  closing  her  eyes.  What 
was  the  day  to  her  ? 

Very  slowly  the  night  was  driven  back.  An 
hour  after,  when  she  lifted  her  head  again,  the 
stars  were  still  glittering  through  the  foggy  arch, 
like  sparks  of  brassy  blue,  and  hills  and  valleys 
were  one  drifting,  slow-heaving  mass  of  ashy 
damp.  Off  in  the  east  a  stifled  red  film  groped 
through.  It  was  another  day  coming  ;  she 
might  as  well  get  up,  and  live  the  rest  of  her 
life  out ;  —  what  else  had  she  to  do  ? 

Whatever  this  night  had  been  to  the  girl,  it 
left  one  thought  sharp,  alive,  in  the  exhausted 
quiet  of  her  brain :  a  cowardly  dread  of  the 
trial  of  the  day,  when  she  would  see  him  again. 
Was  the  old  struggle  of  years  before  coming 
back  ?  Was  it  all  to  go  over  again  ?  She  was 
worn  out.  She  had  been  quiet  in  these  two 
years :  what  had  gone  before  she  never  looked 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  59 

back  upon ;  but  it  made  her  thankful  for  even 
this  stupid  quiet.  And  now,  when  she  had 
planned  her  life,  busy,  useful,  contented,  why 
need  God  have  sent  the  old  thought  to  taunt 
her  ?  A  wild,  sickening  sense  of  what  might 
have  been  struggled  up:  she  thrust  it  down, — 
she  had  kept  it  down  all  night ;  the  old  pain 
should  not  come  back,  —  it  should  not.  She 
did  not  think  of  the  love  she  had  given  up  as  a 
dream,  as  verse-makers  or  sham  people  do ;  she 
knew  it  to  be  the  quick  seed  of  her  soul.  She 
cried  for  it  even  now,  with  all  the  fierce  strength 
of  her  nature  ;  it  was  the  best  she  knew  ; 
through  it  she  came  nearest  to  God.  Thinking 
of  the  day  when  she  had  given  it  up,  she  re 
membered  it  with  a  vague  consciousness  of 
having  fought  a  deadly  struggle  with  her  fate, 
and  that  she  had  been  conquered,  —  never  had 
lived  again.  Let  it  be  ;  she  could  not  bear  the 
struggle  again. 

She  went  on  dressing  herself  in  a  dreary, 
mechanical  way.  Once,  a  bitter  laugh  came  on 
her  face,  as  she  looked  into  the  glass,  and  saw 
the  dead,  dull  eyes,  and  the  wrinkle  on  her  fore 
head.  Was  that  the  face  to  be  crowned  with 
delicate  caresses  and  love  ?  She  scorned  her 
self  for  the  moment,  grew  sick  of  herself,  balked, 
thwarted  in  her  true  life  as  she  was.  Other 
women  whom  God  has  loved  enough  to  probe 


MARGRET  HOWTH. 

to  the  depths  of  their  nature  have  done  the 
same,  —  saw  themselves  as  others  saw  them : 
their  strength  drying  up  within  them,  jeered  at, 
utterly  alone.  It  is  a  trial  we  laugh  at.  I  think 
the  quick  fagots  at  the  stake  were  fitter  subjects 
for  laughter  than  the  slow  gnawing  hunger  in 
the  heart  of  many  a  slighted  woman  or  a  selfish 
man.  They  come  out  of  the  trial  as  out  of- 
martyrdom,  according  to  their  faith  :  you  see  its 
marks  sometimes  in  a  frivolous  old  age  going 
down  with  tawdry  hopes  and  starved  eyes  to 
the  grave ;  you  see  its  victory  in  the  freshest, 
fullest  lives  in  the  earth.  This  woman  had 
accepted  her  trial,  but  she  took  it  up  as  an  in 
flexible  fate  which  she  did  not  understand ;  it 
was  new  to  her ;  its  solitude,  its  hopeless  thirst 
were  freshly  bitter.  She  loathed  herself  as  one 
whom  God  had  thought  unworthy  of  every 
woman's  right,  —  to  love  and  be  loved. 

She    went   to   the   window,  looking  blankly 

out   into   the   gray  cold.     Any  one  with   keen 

analytic    eye,  noting  the  thin   muscles  of  this 

woman,  the   protruding  brain,  the    eyes    deep, 

.       concealing,  would  have  foretold  that  she  would 

conquer  in  the  fight ;   force  her  soul  down,  — 

-  but   that   the   forcing    down   would   leave   the 

weak,  flaccid  body  spent  and  dead.     One  thing 

was    certain:    no    curious   eyes  would    see  the 

struggle ;  the  body  might  be  nerveless  or  sickly, 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  61 

but  it  had  the  great  power  of  reticence ;  the 
calm  with  which  she  faced  the  closest  gaze  was 
natural  to  her,  —  no  *rnask.  When  she  left  her 
room  and  went  down,  the  same  unaltered  quiet 
that  had  baffled  Knowles  steadied  her  step  and 
cooled  her  eyes. 

After  you  have  made  a  sacrifice  of  yourself 
for  others,  did  you  ever  notice  how  apt  you 
were  to  doubt,  as  soon  as  the  deed  was  irrev 
ocable,  whether,  after  all,  it  were  worth  while 
to  have  done  it  ?  How  mean  seems  the  good 
gained  !  How  new  and  unimagined  the  agony 
of  empty  hands  and  stifled  wish !  Very  slow 
the  angels  are,  sometimes,  that  are  sent  to 
minister ! 

Margret,  going  down  the  stairs  that  morn 
ing,  found  none  of  the  chivalric  unselfish  glow 
of  the  night  before  in  her  home.  It  was  an  old, 
bare  house  in  the  midst  of  dreary  stubble  fields, 
in  which  her  life  was  slowly  to  be  worn  out : 
working  for  those  who  did  not  comprehend  her  ; 
thanked  her  little,  —  that  was  all.  It  did  not 
matter ;  life  was  short :  she  could  thank  God 
for  that  at  least. 

She  opened  the  house-door.  A  draught  of 
cold  morning  air  struck  her  face,  sweeping  from 
the  west ;  it  had  driven  the  fog  in  great  gray 
banks  upon  the  hills,  or  in  shimmering  swamps 
into  the  cleft  hollows  :  a  vague  twilight  filled 


62  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

the  space  left  bare.  Tiger,  asleep  in  the  hall, 
rushed  out  into  the  meadow,  barking,  wild  with 
the  freshness  and  cold,  then  back  again  to  tear 
round  her  for  a  noisy  good-morning.  The 
touch  of  the  dog  seemed  to  bring  her  closer  to 
his  master;  she  put  him  away;  she  dared  not 
suffer  even  that  treachery  to  her  purpose :  the 
very  circumstances  that  had  forced  her  to  give 
him  up  made  it  weak  cowardice  to  turn  again. 
It  was  a  simple  story,  yet  one  which  she  dared 
not  tell  to  herself;  for  it  was  not  altogether  for 
her  father's  sake  she  had  made  the  sacrifice. 
She  knew,  that,  though  she  might  be  near  to 
this  man  Holmes  as  his  own  soul,  she  was  a 
clog  on  him,  —  stood  in  his  way,  —  kept  him 
back.  So  she  had  quietly  stood  aside,  taken 
up  her  own  solitary  burden,  and  left  him  with 
his  clear  self-reliant  life,  —  with  his  Self,  dearer 
to  him  than  she  had  ever  been.  Why  should 
it  not  be  dearer?  she  thought,  —  remembering 
the  man  as  he  was,  a  master  among  men :  fit 
to  be  a  master.  She,  —  what  was  she  com 
pared  to  him?  He  was  back  again;  she  must 
see  him.  So  she  stood  there  with  this  persist 
ent  dread  running  through  her  brain. 

Suddenly,  in  the  lane  by  the  house,  she 
heard  a  voice  talking  to  Joel,  —  the  huckster- 
girl.  ^What  a  weak,  cheery  sound  it  was  in 
the  cold  and  fog!  It  touched  her  curiously: 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  63 

broke  through  her  morbid  thought  as  anything 
true  and  healthy  should  have  done.  "  Poor 
Lois !  "  she  thought,  with  an  eager  pity,  forget 
ting  her  own  intolerable  future  for  the  moment, 
as  she  gathered  up  some  breakfast  and  went 
with  it  down  the  lane.  Morning  had  come  ; 
great  heavy  bars  of  light  fell  from  behind  the 
hills  athwart  the  banks  of  gray  and  black  fog ; 
there  was  shifting,  uneasy,  obstinate  tumult 
among  the  shadows ;  they  did  not  mean  to 
yield  to  the  coming  dawn.  The  hills,  the 
massed  woods,  the  mist  opposed  their  immov 
able  front,  scornfully.  Margret  did  not  notice 
the  silent  contest  until  she  reached  the  lane. 
The  girl  Lois,  sitting  in  her  cart,  was  looking, 
attentive,  at  the  slow  surge  of  the  shadows, 
and  the  slower  lifting  of  the  slanted  rays. 

"  T'  mornin'  comes  grand  here,  Miss  Mar- 
g'et ! "  she  said,  lowering  her  voice. 

Margret  said  nothing  in  reply ;  the  morning, 
she  thought,  was  gray  and  cold,  like  her  own 
life.  She  stood  leaning  on  the  low  cart ;  some 
strange  sympathy  drew  her  to  this  poor  wretch, 
dwarfed,  alone  in  the  world,  —  some  tie  of 
equality,  which  the  odd  childish  face,  nor  the 
quaint  air  of  content  about  the  creature,  did 
not  lessen.  Even  when  Lois  shook  down  the 
patched  skirt  of  her  flannel  frock  straight,  and 
settled  the  heaps  of  corn  and  tomatoes  about 


64  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

her,  preparatory  for  a  start,  Margret  kept  her 
hand  on  the  side  of  the  cart,  and  walked  slowly 
by  it  down  the  road.  Once,  looking  at  the 
girl,  she  thought  with  a  half  smile  how  oddly 
clean  she  was.  The  flannel  skirt  she  arranged 
so  complacently  had  been  washed  until  the 
colours  had  run  madly  into  each  other  in  sheer 
desperation ;  her  hair  was  knotted  with  relent 
less  tightness  into  a  comb  such  as  old  women 
wear.  The  very  cart,  patched  as  it  was,  had  a 
snug,  cosey  look ;  the  masses  of  vegetables,  green 
and  crimson  and  scarlet,  were  heaped  with  a 
certain  reference  to  the  glow  of  colour,  Margret 
noticed,  wondering  if  it  were  accidental.  Look 
ing  up,  she  saw  the  girl's  brown  eyes  fixed  on 
her  face.  They  were  singularly  soft,  brooding 
brown. 

"  Ye  V  goin'  to  th>  mill,  Miss  Marg'et?"  she 
asked,  in  a  half  whisper. 

"  Yes.     You  never  go  there  now,  Lois  ?  " 

«  No,  ?m." 

The  girl  shuddered,  and  then  tried  to  hide  it 
in  a  laugh.  Margret  walked  on  beside  her,  her 
hand  on  the  cart's  edge.  Somehow  this  creat 
ure,  that  Nature  had  thrown  impatiently  aside 
as  a  failure,  so  marred,  imperfect,  that  even  the 
dogs  were  kind  to  her,  came  strangely  near  to 
her,  claimed  recognition  by  some  subtile  in 
stinct. 


MAKGRET  HOWTH.  65 

Partly  for  this,  and  partly  striving  to  forget 
herself,  she  glanced  furtively  at  the  childish  face 
of  the  distorted  little  body,  wondering  what  im 
pression  the  shifting  clawn  made  on  the  unfin 
ished  soul  that  was  looking  out  so  intently 
through  the  brown  eyes.  What  artist  sense 
had  she,  —  what  could  she  know — the  igno 
rant  huckster  —  of  the  eternal  laws  of  beauty 
or  grandeur  ?  Nothing.  Yet  something  in  the 
girl's  face  made  her  think  that  these  hills,  this 
air  and  sky,  were  in  fact  alive  to  her, — real ; 
that  her  soul,  being  lower,  it  might  be,  than 
ours,  lay  closer  to  Nature,  knew  the  language 
of  the  changing  day,  of  these  earnest-faced 
hills,  of  the  very  worms  crawling  through  the 
brown  mould.  It  was  an  idle  fancy ;  Margret 
laughed  at  herself  for  it,  and  turned  to  watch 
the  slow  morning-struggle  which  Lois  followed 
with  such  eager  eyes. 

The  light  was  conquering.  Up  the  gray  arch 
the  soft,  dewy  blue  crept  gently,  deepening, 
broadening ;  below  it,  the  level  bars  of  light 
struck  full  on  the  sullen  black  of  the  west,  and 
worked  there  undaunted,  tinging  it  with  crim 
son  and  imperial  purple.  Two  or  three  coy 
mist-clouds,  soon  converted  to  the  new  alle 
giance,  drifted  giddily  about,  mere  flakes  of 
rosy  blushes.  The  victory  of  the  day  came 
slowly,  but  sure,  and  then  the  full  morning 


66  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

flushed  out,  fresh  with  moisture  and  light  and 
delicate  perfume.  The  bars  of  sunlight  fell  on 
the  lower  earth  from  the  steep  hills  like  pointed 
swords ;  the  foggy  swamp  of  wet  vapour  trem 
bled  and  broke,  so  touched,  rose  at  last,  leaving 
patches  of  damp  brilliance  on  the  fields,  and 
floated  majestically  up  in  radiant  victor  clouds, 
led  by  the  conquering  wind.  Victory  :  it  was 
in  the  cold,  pure  ether  filling  the  heavens,  in 
the  solemn  gladness  of  the  hills.  The  great 
forests  thrilling  in  the  soft  light,  the  very  sleepy 
river  wakening  under  the  mist,  chorded  with  a 
grave  bass  in  the  rising  anthem  of  welcome  to 
the  new  life  which  God  had  freshly  given  to 
the  world.  From  the  sun  himself,  come  forth 
as  a  bridegroom  from  his  chamber,  to  the  flick 
ering  raindrops  on  the  road-side  mullein,  the 
world  seemed  to  rejoice,  exultant  in  victory. 
Homely,  cheerier  sounds  broke  the  outlined 
grandeur  of  the  morning,  on  which  Margret 
looked  wearily.  Lois  lost  none  of  them  ;  no 
morbid  shadow  of  her  own  balked  life  kept  their 
meaning  from  her. 

The  light  played  on  the  heaped  vegetables 
in  the  old  cart ;  the  bony  legs  of  the  donkey 
trotted  on  with  fresh  vigour.  There  was  not  a 
lowing  cow  in  the  distant  barns,  nor  a  chirping 
swallow  on  the  fence-bushes,  that  did  not  seem 
to  include  the  eager  face  of  the  little  huckster  in 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  67 

their  morning  greetings.  Not  a  golden  dande 
lion  on  the  road-side,  not  a  gurgle  of  the  plash 
ing  brown  water  from  the  well-troughs,  which 
did  not  give  a  quicker  pleasure  to  the  glowing 
face.  Its  curious  content  stung  the  woman 
walking  by  her  side.  What  secret  of  recom 
pense  had  the  poor  wretch  found  ? 

"  Your  father  is  here,  Lois,"  she  said  careless 
ly,  to  break  the  silence.  "  I  saw  him  at  the  mill 
yesterday." 

Her  face  kindled  instantly. 

"  He  's  home,  Miss  Marg'et,  —  yes.  An'  it 's 
all  right  wid  him.  Things  allus  do  come  right, 
some  time,"  she  added,  in  a  reflective  tone, 
brushing  a  fly  off  Barney's  ear. 

Margret  smiled. 

"  Always  ?  Who  brings  them  right  for  you, 
Lois  ?  " 

"  The  Master,"  she  said,  turning  with  an  an 
swering  smile. 

Margret  was  touched.  The  owner  of  the  mill 
was  not  a  more  real  verity  to  this  girl  than  the 
Master  of  whom  she  spoke  with  such  quiet 
knowledge. 

"  Are  things  right  in  the  mill  ?  "  she  said,  test 
ing  her. 

A  shadow  came  on  her  face ;  her  eyes  wan 
dered  uncertainly,  as  if  her  weak  brain  were 
confused,  —  only  for  a  moment. 


68  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

"  They  '11  come  right ! "  she  said,  bravely. 
«  The  Master  '11  see  to  it !  " 

But  the  light  was  gone  from  her  eyes ;  some 
old  pain  seemed  to  be  surging  through  her  nar 
row  thought;  and  when  she  began  to  talk,  it 
was  in  a  bewildered,  doubtful  way. 

"  It 's  a  black  place,  th'  mill,"  she  said,  in  a 
low  voice.  "  It  was  a  good  while  I  was  there  : 
frum  seven  year  old  till  sixteen.  'T  seemed 
longer  t'  me  'n  't  was.  'T  seemed  as  if  I'd  been 
there  allus, — jes'  forever,  yoh  know.  'Fore  I 
went  in,  I  had  the  rickets,  they  say:  that's  what 
ails  me.  'T  hurt  my  head,  they  've  told  me, — 
made  me  different  frum  other  folks." 

She  stopped  a  moment,  with  a  dumb,  hungry 
look  in  her  eyes.  After  a  while  she  looked  at 
Margret  furtively,  with  a  pitiful  eagerness. 

"  Miss  Marg'et,  I  think  there  be  something 
wrong  in  my  head.  Did  yoh  ever  notice  it  ?  " 

Margret  put  her  hand  kindly  on  the  broad, 
misshapen  forehead. 

"  Something  is  wrong  everywhere,  Lois,"  she 
said,  absently. 

She  did  not  see  the  slow  sigh  with  which  the 
girl  smothered  down  whatever  hope  had  risen 
just  then,  listened  half-attentive  as  the  huckster 
maundered  on. 

"  It  was  th'  mill,"  she  said  at  last.  «  I  kind 
o'  grew  into  that  place  in  them  years :  seemed 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  69 

to  me  like  as  I  was  part  o'  th'  engines,  some 
how.  Th'  air  used  to  be  thick  in  my  mouth, 
black  wi'  smoke  'n'  wool  'n'  smells. 

"  In  them  years  I  got  dazed  in  my  head,  I 
think.  'T  was  th'  air  'n'  th'  work.  I  was  weak 
allus.  'T  sot  so  that  th'  noise  o'  th'  looms  went 

o 

on  in  my  head  night  'n'  day,  —  allus  thud,  thud. 
'N'  hot  days,  when  th'  hands  was  chaffin'  'n' 
singin',  th'  black  wheels  'n'  rollers  was  alive, 
starin'  down  at  me,  'n'  th'  shadders  o'  th'  looms 
was  like  snakes  creepin',  —  creepin'  anear  all  th? 
time.  They  was  very  good  to  me,  th'  hands 
was,  —  very  good.  Ther'  's  lots  o'  th'  Master's 
people  down  there,  though  they  never  heard  His 
name  :  preachers  don't  go  there.  But  He  '11 
see  to  't.  He  '11  not  min'  their  cursin'  o'  Him, 
seein'  they  don't  know  His  face,  'n'  thinkin'  He 
belongs  to  th'  gentry.  I  knew  it  wud  come 
right  wi'  me,  when  times  was  th'  most  bad.  I 
knew  "  — 

The  girl's  hands  were  working  together,  her 
eyes  set,  all  the  slow  years  of  ruin  that  had  eaten 
into  her  brain  rising  before  her,  all  the  tainted 
blood  in  her  veins  of  centuries  of  slavery  and 
heathenism  struggling  to  drag  her  down.  But 
above  all,  the  Hope  rose  clear,  simple  :  the  trust 
in  the  Master  :  and  shone  in  her  scarred  face, — 
through  her  marred  senses. 

"  I  knew  it  wud  come  right,   allus.     I  was 


70  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

alone  then  :  mother  was  dead,  and  father  was 
gone,'  'n'  th'  Lord  thought  't  was  time  to  see 
to  me,  —  special  as  th'  overseer  was  gettin'  me 
an  enter  to  th'  poor-house.  So  He  sent  Mr. 
Holmes  along.  Then  it  come  right !  " 

Margret  did  not  speak.  Even  this  mill-girl 
could  talk  of  him,  pray  for  him ;  but  she  never 
must  take  his  name  on  her  lips ! 

"  He  got  th'  cart  fur  me,  'n'  this  blessed  old 
donkey,  'n'  my  room.  Did  yoh  ever  see  my 
room,  Miss  Marg'et?" 

Her  face  lighted  suddenly  with  its  peculiar 
childlike  smile. 

"  No  ?  Yoh  '11  come  some  day,  surely  ?  It 's 
a  pore  place,  yoh  '11  think  ;  but  it 's  got  th'  air, 
—  th'  air." 

She  stopped  to  breathe  the  cold  morning 
wind,  as  if  she  thought  to  find  in  its  fierce 
freshness  the  life  and  brains  she  had  lost. 

"  Ther'  's  places  in  them  alleys  'n'  dark  holes, 
Miss  Marg'et,  like  th'  openin's  to  hell,  with  th' 
thick  smells  'n'  th'  sights  yoh  'd  see." 

She  went  back  with  a  terrible  clinging  pity  to 
the  Gehenna  from  which  she  had  escaped.  The 
ill  of  life  was  real  enough  to  her,  —  a  hungry 
devil  down  in  those  alleys  and  dens.  Margret 
listened,  waked  reluctantly  to  the  sense  of  a 
different  pain  in  the  world  from  her  own, — 
lower  deeps  from  which  women  like  herself 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  71 

draw  delicately  back,  lifting  their  gauzy 
dresses. 

"Miss  Marg'et!" 

Her  face  flashed. 

«  Well,  Lois  ?  " 

"  Th'  Master  has  His  people  'mong  them  very 
lowest,  that 's  not  for  such  as  yoh  to  speak  to. 
He  knows  'em :  men  'n'  women  starved  V 
drunk  into  jails  'n'  work-houses,  that  'd  scorn 
to  be  cowardly  or  mean,  —  that  shows  God's 
kindness,  through  th'  whiskey  'n'  thievin',  to  th' 
orphints  or  —  such  as  me.  Ther'  's  things  th' 
Master  likes  in  them,  'n'  it  '11  come  right,  it  '11 
come  right  at  last ;  they  '11  have  a  chance  — 
somewhere." 

Margret  did  not  speak ;  let  the  poor  girl  sob 
herself  into  quiet.  What  had  she  to  do  with 
this  gulf  of  pain  and  wrong  ?  Her  own  higher 
life  was  starved,  thwarted.  Could  it  be  that 
the  blood  of  these  her  brothers  called  against 
her  from  the  ground  ?  No  wonder  that  the 
huckster-girl  sobbed,  she  thought,  or  talked  her 
esy.  It  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  see  a  mother 
drink  herself  into  the  grave.  And  yet  —  was 
she  to  blame  ?  Her  Virginian  blood  was  cool, 
high-bred  ;  she  had  learned  conservatism  in  her 
cradle.  Her  life  in  the  West  had  not  yet  quick 
ened  her  pulse.  So  she  put  aside  whatever  so 
cial  mystery  or  wrong  faced  her  in  this  girl,  just 
4 


72  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

as  you  or  I  would  have  done.  She  had  her  own 
pain  to  bear.  Was  she  her  brother's  keeper  ? 
It  was  true,  there  was  wrong ;  this  woman's 
soul  lay  shattered  by  it ;  it  was  the  fault  of  her 
blood,  of  her  birth,  and  Society  had  finished  the 
work.  Where  was  the  help  ?  She  was  free,  — 
and  liberty,  Dr.  Knowles  said,  was  the  cure  for 
all  the  soul's  diseases,  and 

Well,  Lois  was  quiet  now,  —  ready  to  be 
drawn  into  a  dissertation  on  Barney's  vices  and 
virtues,  or  her  room,  where  "  th'  air  was  so  strong, 
V  the  fruit  'n'  vegetables  allus  stayed  fresh, — 
best  in  this  town,"  she  said,  with  a  bustling  pride. 

They  went  on  down  the  road,  through  the 
corn-fields  sometimes,  or  on  the  river-bank,  or 
sometimes  skirting  the  orchards  or  barn-yards 
of  the  farms.  The  fences  were  well  built,  she 
noticed,  —  the  barns  wide  and  snug-looking: 
for  this  county  in  Indiana  is  settled  by  New 
England  people,  as  a  general  thing,  or  Penn- 
sylvanians.  They  both  leave  their  mark  on 
barns  or  fields,  I  can  tell  you !  The  two  wom 
en  were  talking  all  the  way.  In  all  his  life  Dr. 
Knowles  had  never  heard  from  this  silent  girl 
words  as  open  and  eager  as  she  gave  to  the 
huckster  about  paltry,  common  things,  —  partly, 
as  I  said,  from  a  hope  to  forget  herself,  and 
partly  from  a  vague  curiosity  to  know  the 
strange  world  which  opened  before  her  in  this 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  73 

r  disjointed  talk.  There  were  no  morbid  shadows 
in  this  Lois's  life,  she  saw.  Her  pains  and 
pleasures  were  intensely  real,  like  those  of  her 
class.  If  there  were  latent  powers  in  her  dis 
torted  brain,  smothered  by  hereditary  vice  of 
blood,  or  foul  air  and  life,  she  knew  nothing 
of  it.  She  never  probed  her  own  soul  with  ' 
fierce  self-scorn,  as  this  quiet  woman  by  her 
side  did  ;  —  accepted,  instead,  the  passing  mo 
ment,  with  keen  enjoyment.  For  the  rest, 
childishly  trusted  "the  Master." 

This  very  drive,  now,  for  instance,  —  although 
she  and  the  cart  and  Barney  went  through  the 
same  routine  every  day,  you  would  have  thought 
it  was  a  new  treat  for  a  special  holiday,  if  you 
had  seen  the  perfect  abandon  with  which  they 
all  threw  themselves  into  the  fun  of  the  thing. 
Not  only  did  the  very  heaps  of  ruby  tomatoes, 
and  corn  in  delicate  green  casings,  tremble  and 
shine  as  though  they  enjoyed  the  fresh  light  and 
dew,  but  the  old  donkey  cocked  his  ears,  and 
curved  his  scraggy  neck,  and  tried  to  look  as 
like  a  high-spirited  charger  as  he  could.  Then 
everybody  along  the  road  knew  Lois,  and  she 
knew  everybody,  and  there  was  a  mutual  liking 
and  perpetual  joking,  not  very  refined,  perhaps, 
but  hearty  and  kind.  It  was  a  new  side  of  life 
for  Margret.  She  had  no  time  for  thoughts 
of  self-sacrifice,  or  chivalry,  ancient  or  modern, 


74  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

watching  it.  It  was  a  very  busy  ride,  —  some 
thing  to  do  at  every  farm-house :  a  basket  of 
eggs  to  be  taken  in,  or  some  egg-plants,  maybe, 
which  Lois  laid  side  by  side,  Margret  noticed, — 
the  pearly  white  balls  close  to  the  heap  of  royal 
purple.  No  matter  how  small  the  basket  was 
that  she  stopped  for,  it  brought  out  two  or  three 
to  put  it  in  ;  for  Lois  and  her  cart  were  the 
event  of  the  day  for  the  lonely  farm-houses. 
The  wife  would  come  out,  her  face  ablaze 
from  the  oven,  with  an  anxious  charge  about 
that  butter;  the  old  man  would  hail  her  from 
the  barn  to  know  "  ef  she  'd  thought  toh  look 
in  th'  mail  yes'rday ;  "  and  one  or  the  other  was 
sure  to  add,  "  Jes'  time  for  breakfast,  Lois."  If 
she  had  no  baskets  to  stop  for,  she  had  "  a  bit  o' 
business,"  which  turned  out  to  be  a  paper  she 
had  brought  for  the  grandfather,  or  some  fresh 
mint  for  the  baby,  or  "jes'  to  inquire  fur  th' 
fam'ly." 

As  to  the  amount  that  cart  carried,  it  was  a 
perpetual  mystery  to  Lois.  Every  day  since 
she  and  the  cart  went  into  partnership,  she 
had  gone  into  town  with  a  dead  certainty  in 
the  minds  of  lookers-on  that  it  would  break 
down  in  five  minutes,  and  a  triumphant  faith 
in  hers  in  its  unlimited  endurance.  "  This 
cart  '11  be  right  side  up  fur  years  to  come,"  she 
would  assert,  shaking  her  head.  "  It  's  got  no 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  75 

more  notion  o'  givin'  up  than  me  nor  Barney, — 
not  a  bit."  Margret  had  her  doubts,  —  and  so 
would  you,  if  you  had  heard  how  it  creaked 
under  the  load,  —  how  they  piled  in  great 
straw  panniers  of  apples :  black  apples  with 
yellow  hearts, —  scarlet  veined,  golden  pippin 
apples,  that  held  the  warmth  and  light  longest, 
—  russet  apples  with  a  hot  blush  on  their  rough 
brown  skins,  —  plums  shining  coldly  in  their 
delicate  purple  bloom,  —  peaches  with  the  crim 
son  velvet  of  their  cheeks  aglow  with  the  pris 
oned  heat  of  a  hundred  summer  days. 

I  wish  with  all  my  heart  somebody  would 
paint  me  Lois  and  her  cart!  Mr.  Kitts,  the 
artist  in  the  city  then,  used  to  see  it  going  past 
his  room  out  by  the  coal-pits  every  day,  and 
thought  about  it  seriously.  But  he  had  his 
grand  battle-piece  on  hand  then,  —  and  after 
that  he  went  the  way  of  all  geniuses,  and  died 
down  into  colourer  for  a  photographer.  He  met 
them,  that  day,  out  by  the  stone  quarry,  and 
touched  his  hat  as  he  returned  Lois's  "  Good- 
morning,"  -and  took  a  couple  of  great  papaws 
from  her.  She  was  a  woman,  you  see,  and  he 
had  some  of  the  school-master's  old-fashioned 
notions  about  women.  He  was  a  sickly-look 
ing  soul.  One  day  Lois  had  heard  him  say 
that  there  were  papaws  on  his  mother's  place 
in  Ohio ;  so  after  that  she  always  brought  him 


76  MARGRET   HOWTH. 

some  every  day.  She  was  one  of  those  people 
who  must  give,  if  it  is  nothing  better  than  a 
Kentucky  banana. 

After  they  passed  the  stone  quarry,  they  left 
the  country  behind  them,  going  down  the  stub 
ble-covered  hills  that  fenced  in  the  town.  Even 
in  the  narrow  streets,  and  through  the  ware 
houses,  the  strong,  dewy  air  had  quite  blown 
down  and  off  the  fog  and  dust.  Morning  (town 
morning,  to  be  sure,  but  still  morning)  was  shin 
ing  in  the  red  window-panes,  in  the  tossing  smoke 
up  in  the  frosty  air,  in  the  very  glowing  faces 
of  people  hurrying  from  market  with  their  noses 
nipped  blue  and  their  eyes  watering  with  cold. 
Lois  and  her  cart,  fresh  with  country  breath  hang 
ing  about  them,  were  not  so  out  of  place,  after 
all.  House-maids  left  the  steps  half-scrubbed, 
and  helped  her  measure  out  the  corn  and  beans, 
gossiping  eagerly ;  the  newsboys  "  Hi-d !  "  at 
her  in  a  friendly,  patronizing  way ;  women  in 
rusty  black,  with  sharp,  pale  faces,  hoisted  their 
baskets,  in  which  usually  lay  a  scraggy  bit  of 
flitch,  on  to  the  wheel,  their  whispered  bargain 
ing  ending  oftenest  in  a  low  "  Thank  ye,  Lois  ! " 
—  for  she  sold  cheaper  to  some  people  than  they 
did  in  the  market. 

Lois  was  Lois  in  town  or  country.  Some 
subtile  power  lay  in  the  coarse,  distorted  body, 
in  the  pleading  child's  face,  to  rouse,  wherever 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  77 

they  went,  the  same  curious,  kindly  smile.  Not, 
I  think,  that  dumb,  pathetic  eye,  common  to  de 
formity,  that  cries,  "  Have  mercy  upon  me,  O 
my  friend,  for  the  hand  of  God  hath  touched 
me!" — a  deeper,  mightier  charm,  rather:  a  trust 
down  in  the  fouled  fragments  of  her  brain,  even 
in  the  bitterest  hour  of  her  bare  life,  —  a  faith, 
faith  in  God,  faith  in  her  fellow-man,  faith  in 
herself.  No  human  soul  refused  to  answer  its 
summons.  Down  in  the  dark  alleys,  in  the 
very  vilest  of  the  black  and  white  wretches 
that  crowded  sometimes  about  her  cart,  there 
was  an  undefined  sense  of  pride  in  protecting 
this  wretch  whose  portion  of  life  was  more 
meagre  and  low  than  theirs.  Something  in 
them  struggled  up  to  meet  the  trust  in  the 
pitiful  eyes,  —  something  which  scorned  to  be 
tray  the  trust,  —  some  Christ-like  power  in  their 
souls,  smothered,  dying,  under  the  filth  of  their 
life  and  the  terror  of  hell.  A  something  in  them 
never  to  be  lost.  If  the  Great  Spirit  of  love  and 
trust  lives,  not  lost ! 

Even  in  the  cold  and  quiet  of  the  woman 
walking  by  her  side  the  homely  power  of  the 
poor  huckster  was  wholesome  to  strengthen. 
Margret  left  her,  turning  into  the  crowded 
street  leading  to  the  part  of  the  town  where 
the  factories  lay.  The  throng  of  anxious-faced 
men  and  women  jostled  and  pushed,  but  she 


78  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

passed  through  them  with  a  different  heart  from 
yesterday's.  Somehow,  the  morbid  fancies  were 
gone  ;  she  was  keenly  alive  ;  the  coarse  real  life 
of  this  huckster  fired  her,  touched  her  blood  with 
a  more  vital  stimulus  than  any  tale  of  crusader. 
As  she  went  down  the  crooked  maze  of  dingy 
lanes,  she  could  hear  Lois's  little  cracked  bell  far 
off:  it  sounded  like  a  Christmas  song  to  her.  She 
half  smiled,  remembering  how  sometimes  in  her 
distempered  brain  the  world  had  seemed  a  gray, 
dismal  Dance  of  Death.  How  Actual  it  was 
to-day,  —  hearty,  vigorous,  alive  with  honest 
work  and  tears  and  pleasure!  A  broad,  good 
world  to  live  and  work  in,  to  suffer  or  die,  if 
God  so  willed  it,  —  God,  the  good  ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SHE.  entered  the  vast,  dingy  factory ;  the  wool 
len  dust,  the  clammy  air  of  copperas  were  easier 
to  breathe  in ;  the  cramped,  sordid  office,  the 
work,  mere  trifles  to  laugh  at;  and  she  bent 
over  the  ledger  with  its  hard  lines  in  earnest 
good-will,  through  the  slow  creeping  hours  of 
the  long  day.  She  noticed  that  the  unfortunate 
chicken  was  making  its  heart  glad  over  a  piece 
of  fresh  earth  covered  with  damp  moss.  Dr. 
Knowles  stopped  to  look  at  it  when  he  came, 
passing  her  with  a  surly  nod. 

"  So  your  master  's  not  forgotten  you,"  he 
snarled,  while  the  blind  old  hen  cocked  her  one 
eye  up  at  him. 

Pike,  the  manager,  had  brought  in  some  bills. 

"Who  's  its  master?"  he  said,  curiously, 
stopping  by  the  door. 

"  Holmes,  —  he  feeds  it  every  morning." 

The  Doctor  drawled  out  the  words  with  a 
covert  sneer,  watching  the  cold  face  bending 
over  the  desk,  meantime. 

Pike  laughed. 

"  Bah  !  it  's  the  first  thing  he  ever  fed,  then, 


80  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

besides  himself.  Chickens  must  lie  nearer  his 
heart  than  men." 

Knowles  scowled  at  him ;  he  had  no  fancy 
for  Pike's  scurrilous  gossip. 

The  quiet  face  was  unmoved.  When  he 
heard  the  manager's  foot  on  the  ladder  without, 
he  tested  it  again.  He  had  a  vague  suspicion 
which  he  was  determined  to  verify. 

"  Holmes,"  he  said,  carelessly,  "  has  an  affinity 
for  animals.  No  wonder.  Adam  must  have 
been  some  such  man  as  he,  when  the  Lord  gave 
him  '  dominion  over  the  fish  of  the  sea,  and  over 
the  fowl  of  the  air.'  " 

The  hand  paused  courteously  a  moment,  then 
resumed  its  quick,  cool  movement  over  the 
page.  He  was  not  baffled. 

"  If  there  were  such  a  reality  as  mastership, 
that  man  was  born  to  rule.  Pike  will  find  him 
harder  to  cheat  than  me,  when  he  takes  posses 
sion  here." 

She  looked  up  now. 

"  He  came  here  to  take  my  place  in  the  mills, 

—  buy  me  out,  —  articles  will  be  signed  in  a 
day  or  two.      I  know  what    you  think,  —  no, 

—  not  worth  a  dollar.     Only  brains  and  a  soul, 
and  he  's  sold  them  at  a  high  figure,  —  threw 
his  heart  in,  —  the  purchaser  being  a  lady.     It 
was  light,  I  fancy,  —  starved  out,  long  ago." 

The  old  man's  words  were  spurted  out  in  the 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  81 

bitterness  of  scorn.  The  girl  listened  with  a 
cool  incredulity  in  her  eyes,  and  went  back  to 
her  work. 

"  Miss  Herne  is  the  lady,  —  my  partner's 
daughter.  Herne  arid  Holmes  they  '11  call  the 
firm.  He  is  here  every  day,  counting  future 
profit." 

Nothing  could  be  read  on  the  face ;  so  he  left 
her,  cursing,  as  he  went,  men  who  put  them 
selves  up  at  auction,  —  worse  than  Orleans 
slaves.  Margret  laughed  to  herself  at  his  pas 
sion  ;  as  for  the  story  he  hinted,  it  was  absurd. 
She  forgot  it  in  a  moment. 

Two  or  three  gentlemen  down  in  one  of  the 
counting-rooms,  just  then,  looked  at  the  story 
from  another  point  of  view.  They  were  talk 
ing  low,  out  of  hearing  from  the  clerks. 

"  It 's  a  good  thing  for  Holmes,"  said  one,  a 
burly,  farmer-like  man,  who  was  choosing  speci 
mens  of  wool. 

"  Cheap.  And  long  credit.  Just  half  the 
concern  he  takes." 

"  There  is  a  lady  in  the  case  ?  "  suggested  a 
young  doctor,  who,  by  virtue  of  having  spent 
six  months  in  the  South,  dropped  his  r-s,  and 
talked  of  "  niggahs  "  in  a  way  to  make  a  Geor 
gian's  hair  stand  on  end. 

"  A  lady  in  the  case  ?  " 

"  O-f  course.      Only  child  of   Herne's.      He 


82  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

comes  down  with  the  dust  as  dowry.  Good 
thing  for  Holmes.  'Stonishin'  how  he  's  made 
his  way  up.  If  money  ;s  what  he  wants  in  this 
world,  he  's  making  a  long  stride  now  to  't." 

The  young  doctor  lighted  his  cigar,  assert 
ing  that  — 

"  Ba  George,  some  low  people  did  get  on, 
re-markably !  Mary  Herne,  now,  was  best  catch 
in  town." 

"  Do  you  think  money  is  what  he  wants  ?  " 
said  a  quiet  little  man,  sitting  lazily  on  a  barrel, 
—  a  clergyman,  Vandyke ;  whom  his  clerical 
brothers  shook  their  heads  when  they  named, 
but  never  argued  with,  and  bowed  to  with  un 
common  deference. 

The  wool-buyer  hesitated  with  a  puzzled 
look. 

"  No,"  he  said,  slowly ;  "  Stephen  Holmes  is 
not  miserly.  I  've  knowed  him  since  a  boy. 
To  buy  place,  power,  perhaps,  eh  ?  Yet  not 
that,  neither,"  he  added,  hastily.  "  We  think  a 
sight  of  him  out  our  way,  (self-made,  you  see,) 
and  would  have  had  him  theses?  office  in  the 
State  before  this,  only  he  was  so  cursedly  in 
different." 

"  Indifferent,  yes.  No  man  cares  much  for 
stepping-stones  in  themselves,"  said  Vandyke, 
half  to  himself. 

"  Great  fault  of  American  society,  especially 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  83 

in  the  West,"  said  the  young  aristocrat.  "  Step 
ping-stones  lie  low,  as  my  reverend  friend  sug 
gests  ;  impudence  ascends ;  merit  and  refine 
ment  scorn  such  dirty  paths,"  —  with  a  mourn 
ful  remembrance  of  the  last  dime  in  his  waist 
coat-pocket. 

"  But  do  you,"  exclaimed  the  farmer,  with 
sudden  solemnity,  "  do  you  understand  this 
scheme  of  Knowles's?  Every  dollar  he  owns 
is  in  this  mill,  and  every  dollar  of  it  is  going 
into  some  castle  in  the  air  that  no  sane  man 
can  comprehend." 

"  Mad  as  a  March  hare,"  contemptuously 
muttered  the  doctor. 

His  reverend  friend  gave  him  a  look,  —  after 
which  he  was  silent. 

"  I  wish  to  the  Lord  some  one  would  per 
suade  him  out  of  it,"  persisted  the  wool-man, 
earnestly  looking  at  the  attentive  face  of  his 
listener.  "  We  can't  spare  old  Knowles's  brain 
or  heart  while  he  ruins  himself.  It  's  some 
thing  of  a  Communist  fraternity :  I  don't  know 
the  name,  but  I  know  the  thing." 

Very  hard  common-sense  shone  out  of  his 
eyes  just  then  at  the  clergyman,  whom  he 
suspected  of  being  one  of  Knowles's  abettors. 

"  There  's  two  ways  for  'em  to  end,  If 
they  're  made  out  of  the  top  of  society,  they 
get  so  refined,  so  idealized,  that  every  particle 


84  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

flies  off  on  its  own  special  path  to  the  sun,  and 
the  Community  's  broke  ;  and  if  they  're  made 
of  the  lower  mud,  they  keep  going  down,  down 
together,  —  they  live  to  drink  and  eat,  and  make 
themselves  as  near  the  brutes  as  they  can.  It 
is  n't  easy  to  believe,  Sir,  but  it 's  true.  I  have 
seen  it.  I  've  seen  every  one  of  them  the  United 
States  can  produce.  It  's  facts,  Sir ;  and  facts, 
as  Lord  Bacon  says,  'are  the  basis  of  every 
sound  speculation.' " 

The  last  sentence  was  slowly  brought  out,  as 
quotations  were  not  exactly  his  forte,  but,  as  he 
said  afterwards,  —  "  You  see,  that  nailed  the 
parson." 

The  parson  nodded  gravely. 

"  You  '11  find  no  such  experiment  in  the 
Bible,"  threw  in  the  young  doctor,  alluding  to 
"  serious  things "  as  a  peace-offering  to  his 
reverend  friend. 

"  One,  I  believe,"  dryly. 

"  Well,"  broke  in  the  farmer,  folding  up  his 
wool,  "  that  's  neither  here  nor  there.  This  ex 
periment  of  Knowles's  is  like  nothing  known 
since  the  Creation.  Plan  of  his  own.  He 
spends  his  days  now  hunting  out  the  gallows- 
birds  out  of  the  dens  in  town  here,  and  they 
're  all  to  be  transported  into  the  country  to 
start  a  new  Arcadia.  A  few  men  and  women 
like  himself,  but  the  bulk  is  from  the  dens,  I 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  85 

tell  you.  All  start  fair,  level  ground,  perpetual 
celibacy,  mutual  trust,  honour,  rise  according 
to  the  stuff'  that  's  in  them,  —  pah !  it  makes 
me  sick ! " 

"  Knowles's  inclination  to  that  sort  of  peo 
ple  is  easily  explained,"  spitefully  lisped  the 
doctor.  "  Blood,  Sir.  His  mother  was  a  half- 
breed  Creek,  with  all  the  propensities  of  the 
redskins  to  fire-water  and  '  itching  palms.' 
Blood  will  out." 

"  Here  he  is,"  maliciously  whispered  the  wool- 
man.  "  No,  it  's  Holmes,"  he  added,  after  the 
doctor  had  started  into  a  more  respectful  post 
ure,  and  glanced  around  frightened. 

He,  the  doctor,  rose  to  meet  Holmes's  coming 
footstep,  —  "a  low  fellah,  but  always  sure  to  be 
the  upper  dog  in  the  fight,  goin'  to  marry  the 
best  catch,"  etc.,  etc.  The  others,  on  the  con 
trary,  put  on  their  hats  and  sauntered  away  into 
the  street. 

The  day  broadened  hotly  ;  the  shadows  of  the 
Lombardy  poplars  curdling  up  into  a  sluggish 
pool  of  black  at  their  roots  along  the  dry  gut 
ters.  The  old  school-master  in  the  shade  of  the 
great  horse-chestnuts  (brought  from  the  home 
stead  in  the  Piedmont  country,  every  one) 
husked  corn  for  his  wife,  composing,  meanwhile, 
a  page  of  his  essay  on  the  "  Sirventes  de  Ber- 
trand  de  Born."  Joel,  up  in  the  barn  by  him- 


86  MARGRET    HOWTH. 

self,  worked  through  the  long  day  in  the  old 
fashion,  —  pondering  gravely  (being  of  a  relig 
ious  turn)  upon  a  sermon  by  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Clinche,  reported  in  the  "  Gazette  ;  "  wherein 
that  disciple  of  the  meek  Teacher  invoked,  as 
he  did  once  a  week,  the  curses  of  the  law  upon 
slaveholders,  praying  the  Lord  to  sweep  them 
immediately  from  the  face  of  the  earth.  Which 
rendering  of  Christian  doctrine  was  so  much  rel 
ished  by  Joel,  and  the  other  leading  members  of 
Mr.  Clinche's  church,  that  they  hinted  to  him  it 
might  be  as  well  to  continue  choosing  his  texts 
from  Moses  and  the  Prophets  until  the  excite 
ment  of  the  day  was  over.  The  New  Tes 
tament  was, —  well, —  hardly  suited  for  the 
emergency;  did  not,  somehow,  chime  in  with 
the  lesson  of  the  hour.  I  may  remark,  in  pass 
ing,  that  this  course  of  conduct  so  disgusted  the 
High- Church  rector  of  the  parish,  that  he  not 
only  ignored  all  new  devils,  (as  Mr.  Carlyle 
might  have  called  them,)  but  talked  as  if  the 
millennium  were  un  fait  accompli,  and  he  had 
leisure  to  go  and  hammer  at  the  poor  dead  old 
troubles  of  Luther's  time.  One  thing,  though, 
about  Joel :  while  he  was  joining  in  Mr. 
Clinche's  petition  for  the  "  wiping  out  "  of  some 
few  thousands,  he  was  using  up  all  the  frag 
ments  of  the  hot  day  in  fixing  a  stall  for  a  half- 
dead  old  horse  he  had  found  by  the  road-side. 


MARGRET    HOWTH.  87 

Perhaps,  even  if  the  listening  angel  did  not 
grant  the  prayer,  he  marked  down  the  stall  at 
least,  as  a  something  done  for  eternity. 

Margret,  through  the  stifling  air,  worked 
steadily  alone  in  the  dusty  office,  her  face  bent 
over  the  books,  never  changing  but  once.  It 
was  a  trifle  then  ;  yet,  when  she  looked  back 
afterwards,  the  trifle  was  all  that  gave  the  day 
a  name.  The  room  shook,  as  I  said,  with  the 
thunderous,  incessant  sound  of  the  engines  and 
the  looms  ;  she  scarcely  heard  it,  being  used  to 
it.  Once,  however,  another  sound  came  be 
tween,  —  an  iron  tread,  passing  through  the 
long  wooden  corridor,  —  so  firm  and  measured 
that  it  sounded  like  the  monotonous  beatings 
of  a  clock.  She  heard  it  through  the  noise  in 
the  far  distance ;  it  came  slowly  nearer,  up  to 
the  door  without,  —  passed  it,  going  down  the 
echoing  plank  wralk.  The  girl  sat  quietly,  look 
ing  out  at  the  dead  brick  wall.  The  slow  step 
fell  on  her  brain  like  the  sceptre  of  her  master 
if  Knowles  had  looked  in  her  face  then 
would  have  seen  bared  the  secret  of  her  life. 
Holmes  had  gone  by,  unconscious  of  who  was 
within  the  door.  She  had  not  seen  him  ;  it  was 
nothing  but  a  step  she  heard.  Yet  a  power,  the 
power  of  the  girl's  life,  shook  off  all  outward 
masks,  all  surface  cloudy  fancies,  and  stood  up 
in  her  with  a  terrible  passion  at  the  sound  ;  her 


step  -J 
ster ;  / 
,  he  J 


88  MARGRET    HOWTH. 

blood  burned  fiercely ;  her  soul  looked  out,  her 
soul  as  it  was,  as  God  knew  it, —  God  and  this 
man.  No  longer  a  cold,  clear  face  ;  you  would 
have  thought,  looking  at  it,  what  a  strong  spirit 
the  soul  of  this  woman  would  be,  if  set  free  in 
heaven  or  in  hell.  The  man  who  held  it  in  his 
grasp  went  on  carelessly,  not  knowing  that  the 
mere  sound  of  his  step  had  raised  it  as  from  the 
dead.  She,  and  her  right,  and  her  pain,  were 
nothing  to  him  now,  she  remembered,  staring 
out  at  the  taunting  hot  sky.  Yet  so  vacant  was 
the  sudden  life  opened  before  her  when  he  was 
gone,  that,  in  the  desperation  of  her  weakness, 
her  mad  longing  to  see  him  but  once  again,  she 
would  have  thrown  herself  at  his  feet,  and  let 
the  cold,  heavy  step  crush  her  life  out,  —  as  he 
would  have  done,  she  thought,  choking  down 
the  icy  smother  in  her  throat,  if  it  had  served 
his  purpose,  though  it  cost  his  own  heart's  life 
to  do  it.  He  would  trample  her  down,  if  she 
kept  him  back  from  his  end ;  but  be  false  to  her, 
false  to  himself,  that  he  would  never  be ! 

The  red  bricks,  the  dusty  desk  covered  with 
wool,  the  miserable  chicken  peering  out,  grew 
sharper  and  more  real.  Life  was  no  morbid 
nightmare  now  ;  her  weak  woman's  heart  found 
it  near,  cruel.  There  was  not  a  pain  nor  a 
want,  from  the  dumb  question  in  the  dog's  eyes 
that  passed  her  on  the  street,  to  her  father's 


MARGRET    HOWTH.  89 

hopeless  fancies,  that  did  not  touch  her  sharply 
through  her  own  loss,  with  a  keen  pity,  a  wild 
wish  to  help  to  do  something  to  save  others 
with  this  poor  life  left  in  her  hands. 

So  the  day  wore  on  in  the  town  and  country ; 
the  old  sun  glaring  down  like  some  fierce  old 
judge,  intolerant  of  weakness  or  shams, —  bak 
ing  the  hard  earth  in  the  streets  harder  for  the 
horses'  feet,  drying  up  the  bits  of  grass  that 
grew  between  the  boulders  of  the  gutter,  scaling 
off  the  paint  from  the  brazen  faces  of  the  inter 
minable  brick  houses.  He  looked  down  in  that 
city  as  in  every  American  town,  as  in  these 
where  you  and  I  live,  on  the  same  countless 
maze  of  human  faces  going  day  by  day  through 
the  same  monotonous  routine.  Knowles,  pass 
ing  through  the  restless  crowds,  read  with  keen 
eye  among  them  strange  meanings  by  this  com 
mon  light  of  the  sun,  —  meanings  such  as  you 
and  I  might  read,  if  our  eyes  were  clear  as  his, 
—  or  morbid,  it  may  be,  you  think  ?  A  com 
monplace  crowd  like  this  in  the  street  without : 
^  women  with  cold,  fastidious  faces,  heavy-brained, 
bilious  men,  dapper  'prentices,  draymen,  prize 
fighters,  negroes.  Knowles  looked  about  him 
as  into  a  seething  caldron,  in  which  the  people  I 
tell  you  of  were  atoms,  where  the  blood  of  un 
counted  races  was  fused,  but  not  mingled,  — 
where  creeds,  philosophies,  centuries  old,  grap- 


90  MARGRET    HOWTH. 

pled  hand  to  hand  in  their  death-struggle,  — 
where  innumerable  aims  and  beliefs  and  pow 
ers  of  intellect,  smothered  rights  and  trium 
phant  wrongs,  warred  together,  struggling  for 
victory. 

Vulgar  American  life  ?  He  thought  it  a  life 
more  potent,  more  tragic  in  its  history  and 
prophecy,  than  any  that  has  gone  before.  Peo 
ple  called  him  a  fanatic.  It  may  be  that  he  was 
one :  yet  the  uncouth  old  man,  sick  in  soul  from 
some  pain  that  I  dare  not  tell  you  of,  in  his  own 
life,  looked  into  the  depths  of  human  loss  with  a 
mad  desire  to  set  it  right.  On  the  very  faces  of 
those  who  sneered  at  him  he  found  some  trace 
of  failure,  something  that  his  heart  carried  up  to 
God  with  a  loud  and  exceeding  bitter  cry.  The 
voice  of  the  world,  he  thought,  went  up  to 
heaven  a  discord,  unintelligible,  hopeless,  —  the 
great  blind  world,  astray  since  the  first  ages ! 
Was  there  no  hope,  no  help  ? 

The  sun  shone  down,  as  it  had  done  for  six 
thousand  years  ;  it  shone  on  open  problems  in 
the  lives  of  these  men  and  women,  these  dogs 
and  horses  who  walked  the  streets,  problems 
whose  end  and  beginning  no  eye  could  read, 
r  There  were  places  where  it  did  not  shine  :  down 
in  the  fetid  cellars,  in  the  slimy  cells  of  the 
prison  yonder :  what  riddles  of  life  lay  there  he 
dared  not  think  of.  God  knows  how  the  man 


MARGRET    HOWTH.  91 

groped  for  the  light,  —  for  any  voice  to  make 
earth  and  heaven  clear  to  him. 

There  was  another  light  by  which  the  world 
was  seen  that  day,  rarer  than  the  sunshine,  and 
purer.  It  fell  on  the  dense  crowds,  —  upon  the 
just  and  the  unjust.  It  went  into  the  fogs  of 
the  fetid  dens  from  which  the  coarser  light  was 
barred,  into  the  deepest  mires  of  body  where  a 
soul  could  wallow,  and  made  them  clear.  It 
lighted  the  depths  of  the  hearts  whose  outer 
pain  and  passion  men  were  keen  to  read  in  the 
unpitying  sunshine,  and  bared  in  those  depths 
the  feeble  gropings  for  the  right,  the  loving 
hope,  the  unuttered  prayer.  No  kind  thought, 
no  pure  desire,  no  weakest  faith  in  a  God  and 
heaven  somewhere,  could  be  so  smothered  un 
der  guilt  that  this  subtile  light  did  not  search 
it  out,  glow  about  it,  shine  under  it,  hold  it  up 
in  full  view  of  God  and  the  angels,  —  lighting 
the  world  other  than  the  sun  had  done  for  six 
thousand  years.  I  have  no  name  for  the  light : 
it  has  a  name,  —  yonder.  Not  many  eyes  were 
clear  to  see  its  shining  that  day  ;  and  if  they 
did,  it  was  as  through  a  glass,  darkly.  Yet  it 
belonged  to  us  also,  in  the  old  time,  the  time 
when  men  could  "  hear  the  voice  of  the  Lord 
God  in  the  garden  in  the  cool  of  the  day."  It 
is  God's  light  now  alone. 

Yet  Lois  caught  faint  glimpses^  I  think,  some- 


MARGRET  HOWTH. 

times,  of  its  heavenly  clearness.  I  think  it  was 
this  light  that  made  the  burning  of  Christmas 
fires  warmer  for  her  than  for  others,  that  showed 
her  all  the  love  and  outspoken  honesty  and 
hearty  frolic  which  her  eyes  saw  perpetually  in 
the  old  warm-hearted  world.  That  evening,  as 
she  sat  on  the  step  of  her  frame-shanty,  knitting 
at  a  great  blue  stocking,  her  scarred  face  and 
misshapen  body  very  pitiful  to  the  passers-by,  it 
wras  this  that  gave  to  her  face  its  homely,  cheery 
smile.  It  made  her  eyes  quick  to  know  the 
message  in  the  depths  of  colour  in  the  evening 
sky,  or  even  the  flickering  tints  of  the  green 
creeper  on  the  wall  with  its  crimson  cornuco 
pias  filled  with  hot  shining.  She  liked  clear, 
vital  colours,  this  girl,  —  the  crimsons  and  blues. 
They  answered  her,  somehow.  They  could 
speak.  There  were  things  in  the  world  that 
like  herself  were  marred,  —  did  not  understand, 
—  were  hungry  to  know:  the  gray  sky,  the 
mud  streets,  the  tawny  lichens.  She  cried 
sometimes,  looking  at  them,  hardly  knowing 
why :  she  could  not  help  it,  with  a  vague  sense 
of  loss.  It  seemed  at  those  times  so  dreary  for 
them  to  be  alive,  —  or  for  her.  Other  things 
her  eyes  were  quicker  to  see  than  ours :  delicate 
or  grand  lines,  which  she  perpetually  sought  for 
unconsciously,  —  in  the  homeliest  things,  the 
very  soft  curling  of  the  woollen  yarn  in  her 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  (  93 


fingers,  as  in  the  eternal  sculpture  of  the  moun 
tains.  Was  it  the  disease  of  her  injured  brain 
that  made  all  things  alive  to  her,  —  that  made 
her  watch,  in  her  ignorant  way,  the  grave  hills, 
the  flashing,  victorious  rivers,  look  pitifully  into 
the  face  of  some  starved  hound,  or  dingy  mush 
room  trodden  in  the  mud  before  it  scarce  had 
lived,  just  as  we  should  look  into  human  faces 
to  know  what  they  would  say  to  us  ?  Was  it 
weakness  and  ignorance  that  made  everything 
she  saw  or  touched  nearer,  more  human  to  her 
than  to  you  or  me  ?  She  never  got  used  to 
living  as  other  people  do ;  these  sights  and 
sounds  did  not  come  to  her  common,  hack 
neyed.  Why,  sometimes,  out  in  the  hills,  in  the 
torrid  quiet  of  summer  noons,  she  had  knelt  by 
the  shaded  pools,  and  buried  her  hands  in  the 
great  slumberous  beds  of  water-lilies,  her  blood 
curdling  in  a  feverish  languor,  a  passioned  trance, 
from  which  she  roused  herself,  weak  and  tired. 

She  had  no  self-poised  artist  sense,  this  Lois, 
—  knew  nothing  of  Nature's  laws,  as  you  do. 
Yet  sometimes,  watching  the  dun  sea  of  the 
prairie  rise  and  fall  in  the  crimson  light  of 
early  morning,  or,  in  the  farms,  breathing  the 
blue  air  trembling  up  to  heaven  exultant  with 
the  life  of  bird  and  forest,  she  forgot  the  poor 
vile  thing  she  was,  some  coarse  weight  fell  off, 
and  something  within,  not  the  sickly  Lois  of 


94;  MARGRET   HOWTH. 


the  mill,  went  out,  free,  like  an  exile  dreaming 
of  home. 

You  tell  me,  that,  doubtless,  in  the  wreck  of 
the  creature's  brain,  there  were  fragments  of 
some  artistic  insight  that  made  her  thus  rise 
above  the  level  of  her  daily  life,  drunk  with 
the  mere  beauty  of  form  and  colour.  I  do  not 
know,  —  not  knowing  how  sham  or  real  a  thing 
you  mean  by  artistic  insight.  But  I  do  know 
that  the  clear  light  I  told  you  of  shone  for  this 
girl  dimly  through  this  beauty  of  form  and 
colour  ;  alive.  The  Life,  rather  ;  and  ignorant, 
with  no  words  for  her  thoughts,  she  believed  in 
it  as  the  Highest  that  she  knew.  I  think  it 
came  to  her  thus  in  imperfect  language,  (not  an 
outward  show  of  tints  and  lines,  as  to  artists,) 
—  a  language,  the  same  that  Moses  heard  when 
he  stood  alone,  with  nothing  between  his  naked 
soul  and  God,  but  the  desert  and  the  mountain 
and  the  bush  that  burned  with  fire.  I  think  the 
weak  soul  of  the  girl  staggered  from  its  dun 
geon,  and  groped  through  these  heavy -browed 
hills,  these  colour-dreams,  through  the  faces  of 
dog  or  man  upon  the  street,  to  find  the  God 
that  lay  behind.  So  she  saw  the  world,  and  its 
beauty  and  warmth  being  divine  as  near  to  her, 
the  warmth  and  beauty  became  real  in  her, 
found  their  homely  reflection  in  her  daily  life. 
So  she  knew,  too,  the  Master  in  whom  she  be- 


MARGRET   HOWTH.  95 

lieved,  saw  Him  in  everything  that  lived,  more 
real  than  all  beside.  The  waiting  earth,  the 
prophetic  sky,  the  very  worm  in  the  gutter  was 
but  a  part  of  this  man,  something  come  to  tell 
her  of  Him,  —  she  dimly  felt;  though,  as  I  said, 
she  had  no  words  for  such  a  thought.  Yet  even 
more  real  than  this.  There  was  no  pain  nor 
temptation  down  in  those  dark  cellars  where 
she  went  that  He  had  not  borne,  —  not  one. 
Nor  was  there  the  least  pleasure  came  to  her 
or  the  others,  not  even  a  cheerful  fire,  or  kind 
words,  or  a  warm,  hearty  laugh,  that  she  did 
not  know  He  sent  it  and  was  glad  to  do  it. 
She  knew  that  well !  So  it  was  that  He  took 
part  in  her  humble  daily  life,  and  became  more 
real  to  her  day  by  day.  Very  homely  shadows 
her  life  gave  of  His  light,  for  it  was  His  :  home 
ly,  because  of  her  poor  way  of  living,  and  of 
the  depth  to  which  the  heavy  foot  of  the  world 
had  crushed  her.  Yet  they  were  there  all  the 
time,  in  her  cheery  patience,  if  nothing  more. 
To-night,  for  instance,  how  differently  the  surg 
ing  crowd  seemed  to  her  from  what  it  did  to 
Knowles !  She  looked  down  on  it  from  her 
high  wood-steps  with  an  eager  interest,  ready 
with  her  weak,  timid  laugh  to  answer  every 
friendly  call  from  below.  She  had  no  power 
to  see  them  as  types  of  great  classes ;  they 
were  just  so  many  living  people,  whom  she 

5 


96  MARGKET  HOWTH. 

knew,  and  who,  most  of  them,  had  been  kind 
to  her.  Whatever  good  there  was  in  the  vilest 
face,  (and  there  was  always  something,)  she 
was  sure  to  see  it.  The  light  made  her  poor 
eyes  strong  for  that. 

She  liked  to  sit  there  in  the  evenings,  being 
alone,  yet  never  growing  lonesome  ;  there  was 
so  much  that  was  pleasant  to  watch  and  listen 
to,  as  the  cool  brown  twilight  came  on.  If,  as 
Knowles  thought,  the  world  was  a  dreary  dis 
cord,  she  knew  nothing  of  it.  People  were 
going  from  their  work  now,  —  they  had  time 
to  talk  and  joke  by  the  way,  —  stopping,  or 
walking  slowly  down  the  cool  shadows  of  the 
pavement ;  while  here  and  there  a  lingering  red 
sunbeam  burnished  a  window,  or  struck  athwart 
the  gray  boulder-paved  street.  From  the  houses 
near  you  could  catch  a  faint  smell  of  supper : 
very  friendly  people  those  were  in  these  houses  ; 
she  knew  them  all  well.  The  children  came 
out  with  their  faces  washed,  to  play,  now  the 
sun  was  down  :  the  oldest  of  them  generally 
came  to  sit  with  her  and  hear  a  story. 

After  it  grew  darker,  you  would  see  the  girls 
in  their  neat  blue  calicoes  go  sauntering  down 
the  street  with  their  sweethearts  for  a  walk. 
There  was  old  Polston  and  his  son  Sam  com 
ing  home  from  the  coal-pits,  as  black  as  ink, 
with  their  little  tin  lanterns  on  their  caps.  After 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  97 

a  while  Sam  would  come  out  in  his  suit  of 
Kentucky  jean,  his  face  shining  with  the  soap, 
and  go  sheepishly  down  to  Jenny  Ball's,  and 
the  old  man  would  bring  his  pipe  and  chair  out 
on  the  pavement,  and  his  wife  would  sit  on  the 
steps.  Most  likely  they  would  call  Lois  down, 
or  come  over  themselves,  for  they  were  the  most 
sociable,  coseyest  old  couple  you  ever  knew. 
There  was  a  great  stopping  at  Lois's  door,  as 
the  girls  walked  past,  for  a  bunch  of  the  flowers 
she  brought  from  the  country,  or  posies,  as  they 
called  them,  (Sam  never  would  take  any  to 
Jenny  but  "old  man  "  and  pinks,)  and  she  al 
ways  had  them  ready  in  broken  jugs  inside. 
They  were  good,  kind  girls,  every  one  of  them, 
—  had  taken  it  in  turn  to  sit  up  with  Lois  last 
winter  all  the  time  she  had  the  rheumatism. 
She  never  forgot  that  time,  —  never  once. 

Later  in  the  evening  you  would  see  a  man 
coming  along,  close  by  the  wall,  with  his  head 
down,  the  same  Margret  had  seen  in  the  mill, — 
a  dark  man,  with  gray,  thin  hair,  —  Joe  Yare, 
Lois's  old  father.  No  one  spoke  to  him,  — 
people  always  were  looking  away  as  he  passed ; 
and  if  old  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Polston  were  on  the 
steps  when  he  came  up,  they  would  say,  "  Good- 
evening,  Mr.  Yare,"  very  formally,  and  go  away 
presently.  It  hurt  Lois  more  than  anything 
else  they  could  have  done.  But  she  bustled 


98  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

about  noisily,  so  that  he  would  not  notice  it. 
If  they  saw  the  marks  of  the  ill  life  he  had 
lived  on  his  old  face,  she  did  not ;  his  sad,  un 
certain  eyes  may  have  been  dishonest  to  them, 
but  they  were  nothing  but  kind  to  the  mis 
shapen  little  soul  that  he  kissed  so  warmly  with 
a  "  Why,  Lo,  my  little  girl !  "  Nobody  else  in 
the  world  ever  called  her  by  a  pet  name. 

Sometimes  he  was  gloomy  and  silent,  but 
generally  he  told  her  of  all  that  had  happened 
in  the  mill,  particularly  any  little  word  of  no 
tice  or  praise  he  might  have  received,  watching 
her  anxiously  until  she  laughed  at  it,  and  then 
rubbing  his  hands  cheerfully.  He  need  not 
have  doubted  Lois's  faith  in  him.  Whatever 
the  rest  did,  she  believed  in  him ;  she  always 
had  believed  in  him,  through  all  the  dark  years, 
when  he  was  at  home,  and  in  the  penitentiary. 
They  were  gone  now,  never  to  come  back.  It 
had  come  right.  If  the  others  wronged  him, 
and  it  hurt  her  bitterly  that  they  did,  that  would 
come  right  some  day  too,  she  would  think,  as 
she  looked  at  the  tired,  sullen  face  of  the  old 
man  bent  to  the  window-pane,  afraid  to  go  out. 
But  they  had  very  cheerful  little  suppers  there 
by  themselves  in  the  odd,  bare  little  room,  as 
homely  and  clean  as  Lois  herself. 

Sometimes,  late  at  night,  when  he  had  gone 
to  bed,  she  sat  alone  in  the  door,  while  the 


MARGKET  HOWTH.  99 

moonlight  fell  in  broad  patches  over  the  square, 
and  the  great  poplars  stood  like  giants  whis 
pering  together.  Still  the  far  sounds  of  the 
town  came  up  cheerfully,  while  she  folded  up 
her  knitting,  it  being  dark,  thinking  how  happy 
an  ending  this  was  to  a  happy  day.  When  it 
grew  quiet,  she  could  hear  the  solemn  whisper 
of  the  poplars,  and  sometimes  broken  strains  of 
music  from  the  cathedral  in  the  city  floated 
through  the  cold  and  moonlight  past  her,  far 
off  into  the  blue  beyond  the  hills.  All  the  keen 
pleasure  of  the  day,  the  warm,  bright  sights  and 
sounds,  coarse  and  homely  though  they  were, 
seemed  to  fade  into  the  deep  music,  and  make 
a  part  of  it. 

Yet,  sitting  there,  looking  out  into  the  listen 
ing  night,  the  poor  child's  face  grew  slowly  pale 
as  she  heard  it.  It  humbled  her.  It  made  her 
meanness,  her  low,  weak  life  so  plain  to  her! 
There  was  no  pain  nor  hunger  she  had  known 
that  did  not  find  a  voice  in  its  articulate  cry. 
She  !  what  was  she  ?  The  pain  and  wants  of 
the  world  must  be  going  up  to  God  in  that 
sound,  she  thought.  There  was  something 
more  in  it,  —  an  unknown  meaning  of  a  great 
content  that  her  shattered  brain  struggled  to 
grasp.  She  could  not.  Her  heart  ached  with 
a  wild,  restless  longing.  She  had  no  words  for 
the  vague,  insatiate  hunger  to  understand.  It 


/loo  ) 


MARGRET   HOWTH. 

was  because  she  was  ignorant  and  low,  per 
haps  f  others  could  know.  She  thought  her 
Master  was  speaking.  She  thought  that  un 
known  Joy  linked  all  earth  and  heaven  to 
gether,  and  made  it  plain.  So  she  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  listened,  while  the  low 
harmony  shivered  through  the  air,  unheeded  by 
others,  with  the  message  of  God  to  man.  Not 
comprehending,  it  may  be,  —  the  poor  girl, — 
hungry  still  to  know.  Yet,  when  she  looked 
up,  there  were  warm  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  her 
scarred  face  was  bright  with  a  sad,  deep  con 
tent  and  love. 

So  the  hot,  long  day  was  over  for  them  all, 
—  passed  as  thousands  of  days  have  done  for 
us,  gone  down,  forgotten :  as  that  long,  hot  day 
we  call  life  will  be  over  some  time,  and  go 
down  into  the  gray  and  cold.  Surely,  what 
ever  of  sorrow  or  pain  may  have  made  dark 
ness  in  that  day  for  you  or  me,  there  were 
countless  openings  where  we  might  have  seen 
glimpses  of  thatT other  light  than  sunshine:  the 
light  of  that  great  To- Morrow,  of  the  land 
where  all  wrongs  shall  be  righted.  If  we  had 
but  chosen  to  see  it,  —  if  we  only  had  chosen ! 


CHAPTER    V. 

Now  that  I  have  come  to  the  love  part  of  my 
story,  I  am  suddenly  conscious  of  dingy  com 
mon  colors  on  the  palette  with  which  I  have 
been  painting.  I  wish  I  had  some  brilliant  dyes. 
I  wish,  with  all  my  heart,  I  could  take  you  back 
to  that  "  Once  upon  a  time  "  in  which  the  souls 
of  our  grandmothers  delighted,  —  the  time  which 
Dr.  Johnson  sat  up  all  night  to  read  about  in 
"  Evelina,"  —  the  time  when  all  the  celestial 
virtues,  all  the  earthly  graces  were  revealed  in 
a  condensed  state  to  man  through  the  blue  eyes 
and  sumptuous  linens  of  some  Belinda  Portman 
or  Lord  Mortimer.  None  of  your  good-hearted, 
sorely -tempted  villains  then !  It  made  your 
hair  stand  on  end  only  to  read  of  them,  —  going 
about  perpetually  seeking  innocent  maidens  and 
unsophisticated  old  men  to  devour.  That  was 
the  time  for  holding  up  virtue  and  vice;  no 
trouble  then  in  seeing  which  were  sheep  and 
which  were  goats !  A  person  could  write  a 
story  with  a  moral  to  it,  then,  I  should  hope ! 
People  that  were  born  in  those  days  had  no 
fancy  for  going  through  the  world  with  half- 


102  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

and-half  characters,  such  as  we  put  up  with ;  so 
Nature  turned  out  complete  specimens  of  each 
class,  with  all  the  appendages  of  dress,  fortune, 
et  cetera,  chording  decently.  The  heroine  glides 
into  life  full-charged  with  rank,  virtues,  a  name 
three-syllabled,  and  a  white  dress  that  never 
needs  washing,  ready  to  sail  through  dangers 
dire  into  a  triumphant  haven  of  matrimony  ;  — 
all  the  aristocrats  have  high  foreheads  and  cold 
blue  eyes ;  all  the  peasants  are  old  women,  mi 
raculously  grateful,  in  neat  check  aprons,  or 
sullen-browed  insurgents  planning  revolts  in 
caves. 

Of  course,  I  do  not  mean  that  these  times  are 
gone  :  they  are  alive  (in  a  modern  fashion)  in 
many  places  in  the  world ;  some  of  my  friends 
have  described  them  in  prose  and  verse.  I  only 
mean  to  say  that  I  never  was  there  ;  I  was  born 
unlucky.  I  am  willing  to  do  my  best,  but  I 
live  in  the  commonplace.  Once  or  twice  I  have 
rashly  tried  my  hand  at  dark  conspiracies,  and 
women  rare  and  radiant  in  Italian  bowers ;  but 
I  have  a  friend  who  is  sure  to  say,  "  Try  and 
tell  us  about  the  butcher  next  door,  my  dear." 
If  I  look  up  from  my  paper  now,  I  shall  be  just 
as  apt  to  see  our  dog  and  his  kennel  as  the 
white  sky  stained  with  blood  and  Tyrian  purple. 
I  never  saw  a  full-blooded  saint  or  sinner  in  my 
life.  The  coldest  villain  I  ever  knew  was  the 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  103 

only  son  of  his  mother,  and  she  a  widow, —  and 
a  kinder  son  never  lived.  Doubtless  there  are 
people  capable  of  a  love  terrible  in  its  strength ; 
but  I  never  knew  such  a  case  that  some  one  did 
not  consider  its  expediency  as  "  a  match "  in 
the  light  of  dollars  and  cents.  As  for  heroines, 
of  course  I  have  seen  beautiful  women,  and  good 
as  fair.  The  most  beautiful  is  delicate  and  pure 
enough  for  a  type  of  the  Madonna,  and  has  a 
heart  almost  as  warm  and  holy.  (Very  pure  blood 
is  in  her  veins,  too,  if  you  care  about  blood.) 
But  at  home  they  call  her  Tode  for  a  nickname ; 
all  we  can  do,  she  will  sing,  and  sing  through 
her  nose  ;  and  on  washing-days  she  often  cooks 
the  dinner,  and  scolds  wholesomely,  if  the  tea- 
napkins  are  not  in  order.  Now,  what  is  any 
body  to  do  with  a  heroine  like  that?  I  have 
known  old  maids  in  abundance,  with  pathos 
and  sunshine  in  their  lives ;  but  the  old  maid 
of  novels  I  never  have  met,  who  abandoned  her 
soul  to  gossip,  —  nor  yet  the  other  type,  a  life 
long  martyr  of  unselfishness.  They  are  mixed 
generally,  and  not  unlike  their  married  sisters, 
so  far  as  I  can  see.  Then  as  to  men,  certainly 
I  know  heroes.  One  man,  I  knew,  as  high  a 
chevalier  in  heart  as  any  Bayard  of  them  all ; 
one  of  those  souls  simple  and  gentle  as  a  wom 
an,  tender  in  knightly  honour.  He  was  an 
old  man,  with  a  rusty  brown  coat  and  rustier 

5* 


104  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

wig,  who  spent  his  life  in  a  dingy  village  office. 
You  poets  would  have  laughed  at  him.  Well, 
well,  his  history  never  will  be  written.  The 
kind,  sad,  blue  eyes  are  shut  now.  There  is  a 
little  farm-graveyard  overgrown  with  privet  and 
wild  grape-vines,  and  a  flattened  grave  where 
he  was  laid  to  rest ;  and  only  a  few  who  knew 
him  when  they  were  children  care  to  go  there, 
and  think  of  what  he  was  to  them.  But  it  was 
not  in  the  far  days  of  Chivalry  alone,  I  think, 
that  true  and  proud  souls  have  stood  in  the 
world  unwelcome,  and,  hurt  to  the  quick,  have 
turned  away  and  dumbly  died.  Let  it  be. 
Their  lives  are  not  lost,  thank  God! 

I  meant  only  to  ask  you,  How  can  I  help  it, 
if  the  people  in  my  story  seem  coarse  to  you, — 
if  the  hero,  unlike  all  other  heroes,  stopped  to 
count  the  cost  before  he  fell  in  love,  —  if  it  made 
his  fingers  thrill  with  pleasure  to  touch  a  full 
pocket-book  as  well  as  his  mistress's  hand, — 
not  being  withal,  this  Stephen  Holmes,  a  man 
to  be  despised  ?  A  hero,  rather,  of  a  peculiar 
type, —  a  man,  more  than  other  men  :  the  very 
mould  of  man,  doubt  it  who  will,  that  women 
love  longest  and  most  madly.  Of  course,  if  I 
could,  I  would  have  blotted  out  every  meanness 
before  I  showed  him  to  you;  I  would  have  told 
you  Margret  was  an  impetuous,  whole-souled 
woman,  glad  to  throw  her  life  down  for  her 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  105 

father,  without  one  bitter  thought  of  the  wife 
and  mother  she  might  have  been  ;  I  would  have 
painted  her  mother  tender,  (as  she  was,)  forget 
ting  how  pettish  she  grew  on  busy  days :  but 
what  can  I  do  ?  I  must  show  you  men  and 
women  as  they  are  in  that  especial  State  of  the 
Union  where  I  live.  In  all  the  others,  of  course, 
it  is  very  different.  Now,  being  prepared  for 
disappointment,  will  you  see  my  hero  ? 

He  had  sauntered  out  from  the  city  for  a 
morning  walk,  —  not  through  the  hills,  as  Mar- 
gret  went,  going  home,  but  on  the  other  side, 
to  the  river,  over  which  you  could  see  the  Prai 
rie.  We  are  in  Indiana,  remember.  The  sun 
light  was  pure  that  morning,  powerful,  tintless, 
the  true  wine  of  life  for  body  or  spirit.  Stephen 
Holmes  knew  that,  being  a  man  of  delicate 
animal  instincts,  and  so  used  it,  just  as  he  had 
used  the  dumb-bells  in  the  morning.  All  things 
were  made  for  man,  were  n't  they  ?  He  was 
leaning  against  the  door  of  the  school-house,  — 
a  red,  flaunting  house,  the  daub  on  the  land 
scape :  butr  having  his  back  to  it,  he  could  not 
see  it,  so  through  his  half-shut  eyes  he  suffered 
the  beauty  of  the  scene  to  act  on  him.  Suffered : 
in  a  man,  according  to  his  creed,  the  will  being 
dominant,  and  all  influences,  such  as  beauty, 
pain,  religion,  permitted  to  act  under  orders. 
Of  course. 


106  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

It  was  a  peculiar  landscape,  —  like  the  man 
who  looked  at  it,  of  a  thoroughly  American 
type.  A  range  of  sharp,  dark  hills,  with  a 
sombre  depth  of  green  shadow  in  the  clefts, 
and  on  the  sides  massed  forests  of  scarlet  and 
flame  and  crimson.  Above,  the  sharp  peaks  of 
stone  rose  into  the  wan  blue,  wan  and  pale 
themselves,  and  wearing  a  certain  air  of  fixed 
calm,  the  type  of  an  eternal  quiet.  At  the  base 
of  the  hills  lay  the  city,  a  dirty  mass  of  bricks 
and  smoke  and  dust,  and  at  its  far  edge  flowed 
the  Wabash,  —  deep  here,  tinted  with  green, 
writhing  and  gurgling  and  curdling  on  the  banks 
over  shelving  ledges  of  lichen  and  mud-covered 
rock.  Beyond  it  yawned  the  opening  to  the 
great  West,  —  the  Prairies.  Not  the  dreary 
deadness  here,  as  farther  west.  A  plain,  dark 
russet  in  hue,  —  for  the  grass  was  sun-scorched, 
—  stretching  away  into  the  vague  distance,  in 
tolerable,  silent,  broken  by  hillocks  and  puny 
streams  that  only  made  the  vastness  and  silence 
more  wide  and  heavy.  Its  limitless  torpor 
weighed  on  the  brain ;  the  eyes  ached,  stretch 
ing  to  find  some  break  before  the  dull  russet 
faded  into  the  amber  of  the  horizon  and  was 
lost.  An  American  landscape  :  of  few  features, 
simple,  grand  in  outline  as  a  face  of  one  of  the 
early  gods.  It  lay  utterly  motionless  before 
him,  not  a  fleck  of  cloud  in  the  pure  blue  above, 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  107 

even  where  the  mist  rose  from  the  river ;  it  only 
had  glorified  the  clear  blue  into  clearer  violet. 

Holmes  stood  quietly  looking ;  he  could  have 
created  a  picture  like  this,  if  he  never  had  seen 
one ;  therefore  he  was  able  to  recognize  it,  ac 
cepted  it  into  his  soul,  and  let  it  do  what  it 
would  there. 

Suddenly  a  low  wind  from  the  far  Pacific 
coast  struck  from  the  amber  line  where  the 
sun  went  down.  A  faint  tremble  passed  over 
the  great  hills,  the  broad  sweeps  of  colour  dark 
ened  from  base  to  summit,  then  flashed  again, 
—  while  below,  the  prairie  rose  and  fell  like 
a  dun  sea,  and  rolled  in  long,  slow,  solemn 
waves. 

The  wind  struck  so  broad  and  fiercely  in 
Holmes's  face  that  he  caught  his  breath.  It 
was  a  savage  freedom,  he  thought,  in  the  West 
there,  whose  breath  blew  on  him,  — the  freedom 
of  the  primitive  man,  the  untamed  animal  man, 
self-reliant  and-  self-assertant,  having  conquered 
Nature.  Well,  this  fierce,  masterful  freedom 
was  good  for  the  soul,  sometimes,  doubtless. 
It  was  old  Knowles's  vital  air.  He  wondered 
if  the  old  man  would  succeed  in  his  hobby, 
if  he  could  make  the  slavish  beggars  and 
thieves  in  the  alleys  yonder  comprehend  this 
fierce  freedom.  They  craved  leave  to  live  on 
sufferance  now,  not  knowing  their  possible  di- 


108  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

vinity.  It  was  a  desperate  remedy,  this  sense  of 
unchecked  liberty ;  but  their  disease  was  desper 
ate.  As  for  himself,  he  did  not  need  it ;  that 
element  was  not  lacking.  In  a  mere  bodily 
sense,  to  be  sure.  He  felt  his  arm.  Yes,  the 
cold  rigor  of  this  new  life  had  already  worn  oft* 
much  of  the  clogging  weight  of  flesh,  strength 
ened  the  muscles.  Six  months  more  in  the 
West  would  toughen  the  fibres  to  iron.  He 
raised  an  iron  weight  that  lay  on  the  steps, 
carelessly  testing  them.  For  the  rest,  he  was 
going  back  here;  something  of  the  cold,  loose 
freshness  got  into  his  brain,  he  believed.  In 
the  two  years  of  absence  his  power  of  con 
centration  had  been  stronger,  his  perceptions 
more  free  from  prejudice,  gaining  every  day 
delicate  point,  acuteness  of  analysis.  He  drew 
a  long  breath  of  the  icy  air,  coarse  with  the  wild 
perfume  of  the  prairie.  No,  his  temperament 
needed  a  subtiler  atmosphere  than  this,  rarer 
essence  than  mere  brutal  freedom  The  East, 
the  Old  World,  wTas  his  proper  sphere  for  self- 
development.  He  would  go  as  soon  as  he  could 
command  the  means,  leaving  all  clogs  behind. 
All  ?  His  idle  thought  balked  here,  suddenly ; 
the  sallow  forehead  contracted  sharply,  and  his 
gray  eyes  grew  in  an  instant  shallow,  careless, 
formal,  as  a  man  who  holds  back  his  thought. 
There  was  a  fierce  warring  in  his  brain  for  a 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  109 

moment.  Then  he  brushed  his  Kossuth  hat 
with  his  arm,  and  put  it  on,  looking  out  at  the 
landscape  again.  Somehow  its  meaning  was 
dulled  to  him.  Just  then  a  muddy  terrier  came 
up,  and  rubbed  itself  against  his  knee.  "  Why, 
Tige,  old  boy ! "  he  said,  stooping  to  pat  it 
kindly.  The  hard,  shallow  look  faded  out ;  he 
half  smiled,  looking  in  the  dog's  eyes.  A  curi 
ous  smile,  unspeakably  tender  and  sad.  It  was 
the  idiosyncrasy  of  the  man's  face,  rarely '  seen 
there.  He  might  have  looked  with  it  at  a  crimi 
nal,  condemning  him  to  death.  But  he  would 
have  condemned  him,  and,  if  no  hangman  could 
be  found,  would  have  put  the  rope  on  with  his 
own  hands,  and  then  most  probably  would  have 
sat  down  pale  and  trembling,  and  analyzed  his 
sensations  on  paper,  —  being  sincere  in  all. 

He  sat  down  on  the  school-house  step,  which 
the  boys  had  hacked  and  whittled  rough,  and 
waited;  for  he  was  there  by  appointment,  to 
meet  Dr.  Knowles. 

Knowles  had  gone  out  early  in  the  morning 
to  look  at  the  ground  he  was  going  to  buy  for 
his  Phalanstery,  or  whatever  he  chose  to  call  it. 
He  was  to  bring  the  deed  of  sale  of  the  mill  out 
with  him  for  Holmes.  The  next  day  it  was  to 
be  signed.  Holmes  saw  him  at  last  lumbering 
across  the  prairie,  wiping  the  perspiration  from 
his  forehead.  Summer  or  winter,  he  contrived 


110  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

to  be  always  hot.  There  was  a  cart  drawn  by 
an  old  donkey  coming  along  beside  him.  Knowles 
was  talking  to  the  driver.  The  old  man  clapped 
his  hands  as  stage-coachmen  do,  and  drew  in 
long  draughts  of  air,  as  if  there  were  keen  life  and 
promise  in  every  breath.  They  came  up  at  last, 
the  cart  empty,  and  drying  for  the  day's  work 
after  its  morning's  scrubbing,  Lois's  pock-marked 
face  all  in  a  glow  with  trying  to  keep  Barney 
awake.  She  grew  quite  red  with  pleasure  at 
seeing  Holmes,  but  went  on  quickly  as  the  men 
began  to  talk.  Tige  followed  her,  of  course  ; 
but  when*  she  had  gone  a  little  way  across  the 
prairie,  they  saw  her  stop,  and  presently  the  dog 
came  back  with  something  in  his  mouth,  which 
he  laid  down  beside  his  master,  and  bolted  off. 
It  was  only  a  rough  wicker-basket  which  she 
had  filled  with  damp  plushy  moss,  and  half-bur 
ied  in  it  clusters  of  plumy  fern,  delicate  brown 
and  ashen  lichens,  masses  of  forest-leaves  all 
shaded  green  with  a  few  crimson  tints.  It  had 
a  clear  woody  smell,  like  far-off  myrrh.  The 
Doctor  laughed  as  Holmes  took  it  up. 

"  An  artist's  gift,  if  it  is  from  a  mulatto,"  he 
said.  "  A  born  colourist." 

The  men  were  not  at  ease,  for  some  reason ; 
they  seized  on  every  trifle  to  keep  off  the  subject 
which  had  brought  them  together. 

"  That  girl's  artist-sense  is  pure,  and  her  re- 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  Ill 

ligion,  down  under  the  perversion  and  ignorance 
of  her  brain.  Curious,  eh  ?  " 

"  Look  at  the  top  of  her  head,  when  you  see 
her,"  said  Holmes.  "It  is  necessity  for  such 
brains  to  worship.  They  let  the  fire  lick  their 
blood,  if  they  happen  to  be  born  Parsees.  This 
girl,  if  she  had  been  a  Jew  when  Christ  was 
born,  would  have  known  him  as  Simeon  did." 

Knowles  said  nothing,  —  only  glanced  at  the 
massive  head  of  the  speaker,  with  its  overhang 
ing  brow,  square  development  at  the  sides,  and 
lowered  crown, ;  and  smiled  significantly. 

"  Exactly,"  laughed  Holmes,  putting  his  hand 
on  his  head.  "  Crippled  there  by  my  Yorkshire 
blood,  —  my  mother.  Never  mind  ;  outside  of 
this  life,  blood  or  circumstance  matters  nothing." 

They  walked  on  slowly  towards  town.  Surely 
there  was  nothing  in  the  bill-of-sale  which  the 
old  man  had  in  his  pocket  but  a  mere  matter  of 
business;  yet  they  were  strangely  silent  about 
it,  as  if  it  brought  shame  to  some  one.  There 
was  an  embarrassed  pause.  The  Doctor  went 
back  to  Lois  for  relief. 

"  I  think  it  is  the  pain  and  want  of  such  as 
she  that  makes  them  susceptible  to  ^religion. 
The  self  in  them  is  so  starved  and  humbled 
that  it  cannot  obscure  their  eyes  ;  they  see  God 
clearly." 

"  Say  rather,"  said  Holmes,  "that  the  soul  is 


112  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

so  starved  and  blind  that  it  cannot  recognize 
itself  as  God." 

The  Doctor's  intolerant  eye  kindled. 

"  Humph  !  So  that  's  your  creed  !  Not  Pan 
theism.  Ego  sum.  Of  course  you  go  on  with 
the  conjugation:  I  have  been,  I  shall  be.  I, — 
that  covers  the  whole  ground,  creation,  redemp 
tion,  and  commands  the  hereafter  ?  " 

"  It  does  so,"  said  Holmes,  coolly. 

"  And  this  wretched  huckster  carries  her  deity 
about  her,  —  her  self-existent  soul  ?  How,  in 
God's  name,  is  her  life  to  set  it  free?" 

Holmes  said  nothing.  The  coarse  sneer  could 
not  be  answered.  Men  with  pale  faces  and 
heavy  jaws  like  his  do  not  carry  their  religion 
on  their  tongue's  end;  their  creeds  leave  them 
only  in  the  slow  oozing  life-blood,  false  as  the 
creeds  may  be. 

Knowles  went  on  hotly,  half  to  himself,  seiz 
ing  on  the  new  idea  fiercely,  as  men  and  women 
do  who  are  yet  groping  for  the  truth  of  life. 

"  What  is  it  your  Novalis  says  ?  '  The  true 
Shechinah  is  man.'  You  know  no  higher  God  ? 
Pooh  !  the  idea  is  old  enough ;  it  began  with 
Eve.  It  works  slowly,  Holmes.  In  six  thou 
sand  years,  taking  humanity  as  one,  this  self- 
existent  soul  should  have  clothed  itself  with  a 
freer,  royaller  garment  than  poor  Lois's  body,  — 
or  mine,"  he  added,  bitterly. 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  113 

"  It  works  slowly,"  said  the  other,  quietly. 
"  Faster  soon,  in  America.  There  are  yet  many 
ills  of  life  for  the  divinity  within  to  conquer." 

"  And  Lois  and  the  swarming  mass  yonder  in 
those  dens?  It  is  late  for  them  to  begin  the 
fight?" 

"  Endurance  is  enough  for  them  here,  and 
their  religions  teach  them  that.  They  could 
not  bear  the  truth.  One  does  not  put  a  weapon 
into  the  hands  of  a  man  dying  of  the  fetor  and 
hunger  of  the  siege." 

"  But  what  will  this  life,  or  the  lives  to  come, 
give  to  you,  champions  who  know  the  truth?  " 

"  Nothing  but  victory,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone, 
looking  away. 

Knowles  looked  at  the  pale  strength  of  the 
iron  face. 

"  God  help  you,  Stephen !  "  he  broke  out,  his 
shallow  jeering  falling  off.  "  For  there  is  a  God 
higher  than  we.  The  ills  of  life  you  mean  to 
conquer  will  teach  it  to  you,  Holmes.  You  '11 
find  the  Something  above  yourself,  if  it  's  only 
to  curse  Him  and  die." 

Holmes  did  not  smile  at  the  old  man's  heat,  — 
walked  gravely,  steadily. 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Knowles  put  his 
hand  gently  on  the  other's  arm. 

"  Stephen,"  he  hesitated,  "  you  're  a  stronger 
man  than  I.  I  know  what  you  are  ;  I  've 


114  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

watched  you  from  a  boy.  But  you  're  wrong 
here.  I  'm  an  old  man.  There  's  not  much  I 
know  in  life,  —  enough  to  madden  me.  But  I 
do  know  there  's  something  stronger,  —  some 
God  outside  of  the  mean  devil  they  call  .*  Me.' 
You  '11  learn  it,  boy.  There  's  an  old  story  of  a 
man  like  you  and  the  rest  of  your  sect,  and  of 
the  vile,  mean,  crawling  things  that  God  sent  to 
bring  him  down.  There  are  such  things  yet. 
Mean  passions  in  your  divine  soul,  low,  selfish 
things,  that  will  get  the  better  of  you,  show  you 
what  you  are.  You  '11  do  all  that  man  can  do. 
But  they  are  coming,  Stephen  Holmes!  they 
're  coming! " 

He  stopped,  startled.  For  Holmes  had  turned 
abruptly,  glancing  over  at  the  city  with  a  strange 
wistfulness.  It  was  over  in  a  moment.  He  re 
sumed  the  slow,  controlling  walk  beside  him. 
They  went  on  in  silence  into  town,  and  when 
they  did  speak,  it  was  on  indifferent  subjects, 
not  referring  to  the  last.  The  Doctor's  heat,  as 
it  usually  did,  boiled  out  in  spasms  on  trifles. 
Once  he  stumped  his  toe,  and,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  swore  roundly  about  it,  just  as  he  would 
have  done  in  the  new  Arcadia,  if  one  of  the 
jail-birds  comprising  that  colony  had  been  un 
grateful  for  his  advantages.  Philanthropists,  for 
some  curious  reason,  are  not  the  most  amiable 
members  of  small  families. 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  115 

He  gave  Holmes  the  roll  of  parchment  he  had 
in  his  pocket,  looking  keenly  at  him,  as  he  did 
so,  but  only  saying,  that,  if  he  meant  to  sign  it, 
it  would  be  done  to-morrow.  As  Holmes  took 
it,  they  stopped  at  the  great  door  of  the  factory. 
He  went  in  alone,  Knowles  going  down  the 
street.  One  trifle,  strange  in  its  way,  he  re 
membered  afterwards.  Holding  the  roll  of  pa 
per  in  his  hand  that  would  make  the  mill  his, 
he  went,  in  his  slow,  grave  way,  down  the  long 
passage  to  the  loom-rooms.  There  was  a  crowd 
of  porters  and  firemen  there,  as  usual,  and  he 
thought  one  of  them  hastily  passed  him  in  the 
dark  passage,  hiding  behind  an  engine.  As  the 
shadow  fell  on  him,  his  teeth  chattered  with  a 
chilly  shudder.  He  smiled,  thinking  how  super 
stitious  people  would  say  that  some  one  trod  on 
his  grave  just  then,  or  that  Death  looked  at  him, 
and  went  on.  Afterwards  he  thought  of  it. 
Going  through  the  office,  the  fat  old  book 
keeper,  Huff,  stopped  him  with  a  story  he  had 
been  keeping  for  him  all  day.  He  liked  to  tell 
a  story  to  Holmes  ;  he  could  see  into  a  joke  ;  it 
did  a  man  good  to  hear  a  fellow  laugh  like  that. 
Holmes  did  laugh,  for  the  story  was  a  good  one, 
and  stood  a  moment,  then  went  in,  leaving  the 
old  fellow  chuckling  over  his  desk.  Huff  did 
not  know  how,  lately,  after  every  laugh,  this 
man  felt  a  vague  scorn  of  himself,  as  if  jokes 


116  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

and  laughter  belonged  to  a  self  that  ought  to 
have  been  dead  long  ago.  Perhaps,  if  the  fat 
old  book-keeper  had  known  it,  he  would  have 
said  that  the  man  was  better  than  he  knew. 
But  then,  —  poor  Huff !  He  passed  slowly 
through  the  alleys  between  the  great  looms. 
Overhead  the  ceiling  looked  like  a  heavy  maze 
of  iron  cylinders  and  black  swinging  bars  and 
wheels,  all  in  swift,  ponderous  motion.  It  was 
enough  to  make  a  brain  dizzy  with  the  clanging 
thunder  of  the  engines,  the  whizzing  spindles  of 
red  and  yellow,  and  the  hot  daylight  glaring 
over  all.  The  looms  were  watched  by  women, 
most  of  them  bold,  tawdry  girls  of  fifteen  or 
sixteen,  or  lean-jawed  women  from  the  hills, 
wives  of  the  coal-diggers.  There  was  a  breath 
less  odour  of  copperas.  As  he  went  from  one 
room  to  another  up  through  the  ascending  sto 
ries,  he  had  a  vague  sensation  of  being  followed. 
Some  shadow  lurked  at  times  behind  the  en 
gines,  or  stole  after  him  in  the  dark  entries. 
Were  there  ghosts,  then,  in  mills  in  broad  day 
light?  None  but  the  ghosts  of  Want  and  Hun 
ger  and  Crime,  he  might  have  known,  that  do 
not  wait  for  night  to  walk  our  streets :  the 
ghosts  that  poor  old  Knowles  hoped  to  lay 
forever. 

Holmes    had   a   room  fitted  up  in  the  mill, 
where  he  slept.     He  went  up  to  it  slowly,  hold- 


MARGRET  IJOWTH.  117 

ing  the  paper  tightly  in  one  hand,  glancing  at 
the  operatives,  the  work,  through  his  furtive 
half-shut  eye.  Nothing  escaped  him.  Passing 
the  windows,  he  did  not  once  look*  out  at  the 
prophetic  dream  of  beauty  he  had  left  without. 
In  the  mill  he  was  of  the  mill.  Yet  he  went 
slowly,  as  if  he  shrank  from  the  task  waiting 
for  him.  Why  should  he  ?  It  was  a  simple 
matter  of  business,  this  transfer  of  Knowles's 
share  in  the  mill  to  himself;  to-day  he  was  to 
decide  whether  he  would  conclude  the  bargain. 
If  any  dark  history  of  wrong  lay  underneath, 
if  this  simple  decision  of  his  was  to  be  the 
struggle  for  life  and  death  with  him,  his  cold, 
firm  face  told  nothing  of  it.  Let  us  be  just  to 
him,  stand  by  him,  if  we  can,  in  the  midst  of 
his  desolate  home  and  desolate  life,  and  look 
through  his  cold,  sorrowful  eyes  at  the  deed  he 
was  going  to  do.  Dreary  enough  he  looked, 
going  through  the  great  mill,  despite  the  power 
in  his  quiet  face.  A  man  who  had  strength  for 
solitude;  yet,  I  think,  with  all  his  strength,  his 
mother  could  not  have  borne  to  look  back  from 
the  dead  that  day,  to  see  her  boy  so  utterly  alone. 
The  day  was  the  crisis  of  his  life,  looked  forward 
to  for  years;  he  held  in  his  hand  a  sure  passport 
to  fortune.  Yet  he  thrust  the  hour  off,  perverse 
ly,  trifling  with  idle  fancies,  pushing  from  him 
the  one  question  which  all  the  years  past  and  to 
come  had  left  for  this  day  to  decide. 


118  MARGRET   HOWTH. 

Some  such  idle  fancy  it  may  have  been  that 
made  the  man  turn  from  the  usual  way  down 
a  narrow  passage  into  which  opened  doors  from 
small  offices.  Margret  Howth,  he  had  learned 
to-day,  was  in  the  first  one.  He  hesitated  be 
fore  he  did  it,  his  sallow  face  turning  a  trifle 
paler ;  then  he  went  on  in  his  hard,  grave  way, 
wondering  dimly  if  she  remembered  his  step, 
if  she  cared  to  see  him  now.  She  used  to 
know  it,  —  she  was  the  only  one  in  the  world 
who  ever  had  cared  to  know  it,  —  silly  child ! 
Doubtless  she  was  wiser  now.  He  remem 
bered  he  used  to  think,  that,  when  this  woman 
loved,  it  would  be  as  he  himself  would,  with  a 
simple  trust  which  the  wrong  of  years  could 

not   touch.      And    once    he    had   thought 

Well,  well,  he  was  mistaken.  Poor  Margret ! 
Better  as  it  was  They  were  nothing  to  each 
other.  She  had  put  him  from  her,  and  he  had 
suffered  himself  to  be  put  away.  Why,  he 
would  have  given  up  every  prospect  of  life,  if 
he  had  done  otherwise !  Yet  he  wondered 
bitterly  if  she  had  thought  him  selfish,  —  if  she 
thought  it  was  money  he  cared  for,  as  the 
others  did.  It  mattered  nothing  what  they 
thought,  but  it  wounded  him  intolerably  that 
she  should  wrong  him.  Yet,  with  all  this, 
whenever  he  looked  forward  to  death,  it  was 
with  the  certainty  that  he  should  find  her  there 
beyond.  There  would  be  no  secrets  then  ;  she 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  119 

would  know  then  how  he  had  loved  her  always. 
Loved  her  ?  Yes ;  he  need  not  hide  it  from 
himself,  surely. 

He  was  now  by  the  door  of  the  office  ;  — 
she  was  within.  Little  Margret,  poor  little 
Margret !  struggling  there  day  after  day  for  the 
old  father  and  mother.  What  a  pale,  cold  little 
child  she  used  to  be !  such  a  child !  yet  kin 
dling  at  his  look  or  touch,  as  if  her  veins  were 
filled  with  subtile  flame.  Her  soul  was  —  like 
his  own,  he  thought.  He  Jsnew  what  it  was,  — 
he  only.  Even  now  he  glowed  with  a  man's 
triumph  to  know  he  held  the  secret  life  of  this 
woman  bare  in  his  hand.  No  other  human 
power  could  ever  come  near  her;  he  was  se 
cure  in  possession.  She  had  put  him  from  her ; 
—  it  was  better  for  both,  perhaps.  Their  paths 
were  separate  here  ;  for  she  had  some  unreal 
notions  of  duty,  and  he  had  too  much  to  do  in 
the  world  to  clog  himself  with  cares,  or  to  idle 
an  hour  in  the  rare  ecstasy  of  even  love  like 
this. 

He  passed  the  office,  not  pausing  in  his  slow 
step.  Some  sudden  impulse  made  him  put  his 
hand  on  the  door  as  he  brushed  against  it :  just 
a  quick,  light  touch  ;  but  it  had  all  the  fierce 
passion  of  a  caress.  He  drew  it  back  as 
quickly,  and  went  on,  wiping  a  clammy  sweat 
from  his  face. 


120  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

The  room  he  had  fitted  up  for  himself  was 
whitewashed  and  barely  furnished ;  it  made 
one's  bones  ache  to  look  at  the  iron  bedstead 
and  chairs.  Holmes's  natural  taste  was  more 
glowing,  however  smothered,  than  that  of  any 
saffron-robed  Sybarite.  It  needed  correction, 
he  knew  ;  here  was  discipline.  Besides,  he  had 
set  apart  the  coming  three  or  four  years  of  his 
life  to  make  money  in,  enough  for  the  time  to 
come.  He  would  devote  his  whole  strength 
to  that  work,  and  |O  be  sooner  done  with  it. 
Money,  or  place,  or  even  power,  was  nothing 
but  a  means  to  him  :  other  men  valued  them 
because  of  their  influence  on  others.  As  his 
work  in  the  world  was  only  the  development 
of  himself,  it  was  different,  of  course.  What 
would  it  matter  to  his  soul  the  day  after  death, 
if  millions  called  his  name  aloud  in  blame  or 
praise  ?  Would  he  hear  or  answer  then  ?  What 
would  it  matter  to  him  then,  if  he  had  starved 
with  them,  or  ruled  over  them  ?  People  talked 
of  benevolence.  What  would  it  matter  to  him 
then,  the  misery  or  happiness  of  those  yet  work 
ing  in  this  paltry  life  of  ours  ?  In  so  far  as  the 
exercise  of  kindly  emotions  or  self-denial  devel 
oped  the  higher  part  of  his  nature,  it  was  to 
be  commended  ;  as  for  its  effect  on  others,  that 
he  had  nothing  to  do  with.  He  practised  self- 
denial  constantly  to  strengthen  the  benevolent 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  121 

instincts.  That  very  morning  he  had  given 
his  last  dollar  to  Joe  Byers,  a  half-starved  crip 
ple.  "  Chucked  it  at  me,"  Joe  said,  "  like  as 
he  'd  give  a  bone  to  a  dog,  and  be  damned  to 
him!  Who  thanks  him?"  To  tell  the  truth, 
you  will  find  no  fairer  exponent  than  this  Ste 
phen  Holmes  of  the  great  idea  of  American 
sociology,  —  that  the  object  of  life  is  to  grow. 
Circumstances  had  forced  it  on  him,  partly. 
Sitting  now  in  his  room,  where  he  was  count 
ing  the  cost  of  becoming  a  merchant  prince, 
he  could  look  back  to  the  time  of  a  boyhood 
passed  in  the  depths  of  ignorance  and  vice.  He 
knew  what  this  Self  within  him  was  ;  he  knew 
how  it  had  forced  him  to  grope  his  way  up,  to 
give  this  hungry,  insatiate  soul  air  and  freedom 
and  knowledge.  All  men  around  him  were 
doing  the  same,  —  thrusting  and  jostling  and 
struggling,  up,  up.  It  was  the  American  motto, 
Go  ahead  ;  mothers  taught  it  to  their  children  ; 
the  whole  system  was  a  scale  of  glittering 
prizes.  He  at  least  saw  the  higher  meaning 
of  the  truth ;  he  had  no  low  ambitions.  To 
lift  this  self  up  into  a  higher  range  of  being 
when  it  had  done  with  the  uses  of  this,  —  that 
was  his  work.  Self-salvation,  self-elevation, — 
the  ideas  that  give  birth  to,  and  destroy  half 
of  our  Christianity,  half  of  our  philanthropy  ! 
Sometimes,  sleeping  instincts  in  the  man  strug- 


122  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

gled  up  to  assert  a  divinity  more  terrible  than 
this  growing  self-existent  soul  that  he  purified 
and  analyzed  day  by  day  :  a  depth  of  tender 
pity  for  outer  pain ;  a  fierce  longing  for  rest, 
on  something,  in  something,  he  cared  not  what. 
He  stifled  such  rebellious  promptings,  —  called 
them  morbid.  He  called  it  morbid,  too,  the 
passion  now  that  chilled  his  strong  blood,  and 
wrung  out  these  clammy  drops  on  his  forehead, 
at  the  mere  thought  of  this  girl  below. 

He  shut  the  door  of  his  room  tightly:  he 
had  no  time  to-day  for  lounging  visitors.  For 
Holmes,  quiet  and  steady,  was  sought  for,  if 
not  popular,  even  in  the  free-and-easy  West; 
one  of  those  men  who  are  unwillingly  masters 
among  men.  Just  and  mild,  always  ;  with  a 
peculiar  gift  that  made  men  talk  their  best 
thoughts  to  him,  knowing  they  would  be  un 
derstood  ;  if  any  core  of  eternal  flint  lay  under 
the  simple,  truthful  manner  of  the  man,  nobody 
saw  it. 

He  laid  the  bill  of  sale  on  the  table ;  it  was 
an  altogether  practical  matter  on  which  he  sat 
in  judgment,  but  he  was  going  to  do  nothing 
rashly.  A  plain  business  document:  he  took 
Dr.  Knowles's  share  .in  the  factory ;  the  pay 
ments  made  with  short  intervals  ;  John  Herne 
was  to  be  his  endorser :  it  needed  only  the 
names  to  make  it  valid.  Plain  enough ;  no 


MAKGRET  HOWTH.  123 

hint  there  of  the  tacit  understanding  that  the 
purchase-money  was  a  wedding  dowry ;  even 
between  Herne  and  himself  it  never  was 
openly  put  into  words.  If  he  did  not  marry 
Miss  Herne,  the  mill  was  her  father's  ;  that  of 
course  must  be  spoken  of,  arranged  to-morrow. 
If  he  took  it,  then  ?  if  he  married  her  ?  Holmes 
had  been  poor,  was  miserably  poor  yet,  with 
the  position  and  habits  of  a  man  of  refinement. 
God  knows  it  was  not  to  gratify  those  tastes 
that  he  clutched  at  this  money.  All  the  slow 
years  of  work  trailed  up  before  him,  that  were 
gone,  —  of  hard,  wearing  work  for  daily  bread, 
when  his  brain  had  been  starving  for  knowl 
edge,  and  his  soul  dulled,  debased  with  sordid 
trading.  Was  this  to  be  always  ?  Were  these 
few  golden  moments  of  life  to  be  traded  for  the 
bread  and  meat  he  ate  ?  To  eat  and  drink,  — 
was  that  what  he  was  here  for  ? 

As   he   paced   the  floor   mechanically,   some 
vague  recollection  crossed  his  brain  of  a  child 
ish  story  of  the  man  standing  where  the  two 
great   roads  of  life   parted.     They  were    open  X 
before   him   now.     Money,   money,  —  he   took 
the  word  into  his  heart  as*  a  miser  might  do. 
With  it,  he  was  free  from  these  carking  cares 
that  were  making  his  mind  foul   and    muddy.  \ 
If  he  had  money!     Slow,  cool  visions  of  tri 
umphs  rose  before   him  outlined   on  the   years 


124  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

to  come,  practical,  if  Utopian.  Slow  and  sure 
successes  of  science  and  art,  where  his  brain 
could  work,  helpful  and  growing.  Far  off,  yet 
surely  to  come,  —  surely  for  him,  —  a  day 
when  a  pure  social  system  should  be  univer 
sal,  should  have  thrust  out  its  fibres  of  light, 
knitting  into  one  the  nations  of  the  earth,  when 
the  lowest  slave  should  find  its  true  place  and 
rightful  work,  and  stand  up,  knowing  itself 
divine.  "  To  insure  to  every  man  the  freest 
development  of  his  faculties : "  he  said  over 
the  hackneyed  dogma  again  and  again,  while 
the  heavy,  hateful  years  of  poverty  rose  before 
him  that  had  trampled  him  down.  "  To  in 
sure  to  him  the  freest  development,"  he  did 
not  need  to  wait  for  St.  Simon,  or  the  golden 
year,  he  thought  with  a  dreary  gibe  ;  money 
was  enough,  and  —  Miss  Herne. 

It  was  curious,  that,  when  this  woman,  whom 
he  saw  every  day,  came  up  in  his  mind,  it  was 
always  in  one  posture,  one  costume.  You  have 
noticed  that  peculiarity  in  your  remembrance  of 
some  persons  ?  Perhaps  you  would  find,  if  you 
looked  closely,  that  in  that  look  or  indelible  ges 
ture  which  your  memory  has  caught  there  lies 
some  subtile  hint  of  the  tie  between  your  soul 
and  theirs.  Now,  when  Holmes  had  resolved 
coolly  to  weigh  this  woman,  brain,  heart,  and 
flesh,  to  know  how  much  of  a  hindrance  she 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  125 

would  be,  he  could  only  see  her,  with  his  artist's 
sense,  as  delicate  a  bloom  of  colouring  as  eye 
could  crave,  in  one  immovable  posture,  —  as  he 
had  seen  her  once  in  some  masquerade  or  tableau 
vivant.  June,  I  think  it  was,  she  chose  to  repre 
sent  that  evening,  —  and  with  her  usual  suc 
cess  ;  for  no  woman  ever  knew  more  thoroughly 
her  material  of  shape  or  colour,  or  how  to  work 
it  up.  Not  an  ill-chosen  fancy,  either,  that  of 
the  moist,  warm  month.  Some  tranced  sum 
mer's  day  might  have  drowsed  down  into  such 
a  human  form  by  a  dank  pool,  or  on  the  thick 
grass-crusted  meadows.  There  was  the  full  con 
tour  of  the  limbs  hid  under  warm  green  folds, 
the  white  flesh  that  glowed  when  you  touched 
it  as  if  some  smothered  heat  lay  beneath,  the 
snaring  eyes,  the  sleeping  face,  the  amber  hair 
uncoiled  in  a  languid  quiet,  while  yellow  jas 
mines  deepened  its  hue  into  molten  sunshine, 
and  a  great  tiger-lily  laid  its  sultry  head  on  her 
breast.  June  ?  Could  June  become  incarnate 
wTith  higher  poetic  meaning  than  that  which  this 
woman  gave  it  ?  Mr.  Kitts,  the  artist  I  told 
you  of,  thought  not.  and  fell  in  love  with  June 
and  her  on  the  spot,  which  passion  became  quite 
unbearable  after  she  had  graciously  permitted 
him  to  sketch  her,  —  for  the  benefit  of  Art. 
Three  medical  students  and  one  attorney,  Miss 
Herne  numbered  as  having  been  driven  into  a 


126  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

state  of  dogged  despair  on  that  triumphal  oc 
casion.  Mr.  Holmes  may  have  quarrelled  with 
the  rendering,  doubting  to  himself  if  her  lip  were 
not  too  thick,  her  eye  too  brassy  and  pale  a  blue 
for  the  queen  of  months ;  though  I  do  not  be 
lieve  he  thought  at  all  about  it.  Yet  the  picture 
clung  to  his  memory. 

As  he  slowly  paced  the  room  to-day,  thinking 
of  this  woman  as  his  wife,  light  blue  eyes  and 
yellow  hair  and  the  unclean  sweetness  of  jas 
mine-flowers  mixed  with  the  hot  sunshine  and 
smells  of  the  mill.  He  could  think  of  her  in  no 
other  light.  He  might  have  done  so ;  for  the 
poor  girl  had  her  other  sides  for  view.  She  had 
one  of  those  sharp,  tawdry  intellects  whose  pos 
sessors  are  always  reckoned  "  brilliant  women, 
fine  talkers."  She  was  (aside  from  the  neces 
sary  sarcasm  to  keep  up  this  reputation)  a  good- 
humoured  soul  enough,  —  when  no  one  stood  in 
her  way.  But  if  her  shallow  virtues  or  vices 
were  palpable  at  all  to  him,  they  became  one 
with  the  torpid  beauty  of  the  oppressive  sum 
mer  day,  and  weighed  on  him  alike  with  a 
vague  disgust.  The  woman  luxuriated  in  per 
fume  ;  some  heavy  odour  always  hung  about 
her.  Holmes,  thinking  of  her  now,  fancied  he 
felt  it  stifling  the  air,  and  opened  the  window 
for  breath.  Patchouli  or  copperas,  —  what  was 
the  difference  ?  The  mill  and  his  future  wife 


MAHGRET  HOWTH.  127 

came  to  him  together 7jit  was  scarcely  his  fault, 
if  he  thought  of  them  as  one,  or  muttered, 
"  Damnable  clog ! "  as  he  sat  down  to  write, 
his  cold  eye  growing  colder.  But  he  did  not 
argue  the  question  any  longer;  decision  had 
come  keenly  in  one  moment,  fixed,  unalterable. 

If,  through  the  long  day,  the  starved  heart  of 
the  man  called  feebly  for  its  natural  food,  he 
called  it  a  paltry  weakness ;  or  if  the  old  thought 
of  the  quiet,  pure  little  girl  in  the  office  below 
came  back  tcTTiirnTTie  —  he  wished  her  well,  he 
hoped  she  might  succeed  in  her  work,  he  would 
always  be  ready  to  lend  her  a  helping  hand.  So 
many  years  (he  was  ashamed  to  think  how  many) 
he  had  built  the  thought  of  this  girl  as  his  wife 
into  the  future,  put  his  soul's  strength  into  the 
hope,  as  if  love  and  the  homely  duties  of  hus 
band  and  father  were  what  life  was  given  for ! 
A  boyish  fancy,  he  thought.  He  had  not  learned 
then  that  all  dreams  must  yield  to  self-reverence 
and  self-growth.  As  for  taking  up  this  life  of 
poverty  and  soul- starvation  for  the  sake  of  a 
little  love,  it  would  be  an  ignoble  martyrdom, 
the  sacrifice  of  a  grand  unmeasured  life  to  a 
shallow  pleasure.  He  was  no  longer  a  young 
man  now;  he  had  no  time  to  waste.  Poor 
Margret !  he  wondered  if  it  hurt  her  ? 

He  signed  the  deed,  and  left  it  in  the  slow, 
quiet  way  natural  to  him,  and  after  a  while 

6* 


128  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

stooped  to  pat  the  dog  softly,  who  was  trying 
to  lick  his  hand,  —  with  the  hard  fingers  shaking 
a  little,  and  a  smothered  fierceness  in  the  half- 
closed  eye,  like  a  man  who  is  tortured  and  alone. 

There  is  a  miserable  drama  acted  in  other 
homes  than  the  Tuileries,  when  men  have  found 
a  woman's  heart  in  their  way  to  success,  and 
trampled  it  down  under  an  iron  heel.  Men  like 
Napoleon  must  live  out  the  law  of  their  na 
tures,  I  suppose,  —  on  a  throne,  or  in  a  mill. 

So  many  trifles  that  day  roused  the  under 
current  of  old  thoughts  and  old  hopes  that 
taunted  him,  —  trifles,  too,  that  he  would  not 
have  heeded  at  another  time.  Pike  came  in  on 
business,  a  bunch  of  bills  in  his  hand.  A  wily, 
keen  eye  he  had,  looking  over  them,  —  a  lean 
face,  emphasized  only  by  cunning.  No  wonder 
Dr.  Knowles  cursed  him  for  a  "  slippery  cus 
tomer,"  and  was  cheated  by  him  the  next  hour. 
While  he  and  Holmes  were  counting  out  the 
bills,  a  little  white-headed  girl  crept  shyly  in  at 
the  door,  and  came  up  to  the  table,  —  oddly 
dressed,  in  a  frock  fastened  with  great  horn 
buttons,  and  with  an  old-fashioned  anxious  pair 
of  eyes,  the  color  of  blue  Delft.  Holmes 
smoothed  her  hair,  as  she  stood  beside  them; 
for  he  never  could  help  caressing  children  or 
dogs.  Pike  looked  up  sharply,  —  then  half 
smiled,  as  he  went  on  counting. 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  129 

"  Ninety,  ninety-five,  and  one  hundred,  all 
right/' — tying  a  bit  of  tape  about  the  papers. 
"  My  Sophy,  Mr.  Holmes.  Good  girl,  Sophy  is. 
Bring  her  up  to  the  mill  sometimes,"  he  said, 
apologetically,  "  on  'count  of  not  leaving  her 
alone.  She  gets  lonesome  at  th'  house." 

Holmes  glanced  at  Pike's  felt  hat  lying  on  the 
table  :  there  was  a  rusty  strip  of  crape  on  it. 

"  Yes,"  said  Pike,  in  a  lower  tone,  "  I  'm 
father  and  mother,  both,  to  Sophy  now." 

"  I  had  not  heard,"  said  Holmes,  kindly. 
"How  about  the  boys,  now?" 

"  Pete  and  John  's  both  gone  West,"  the  man 
said,  his  eyes  kindling  eagerly.  "'S  fine  boys 
as  ever  turned  out  of  Indiana.  Good  eddica- 
tions  I  give  'em  both.  I've  felt  the  want  of 
that  all  my  life.  Good  eddications.  Says  I, 
i  Now,  boys,  you've  got  your  fortunes,  nothing 
to  hinder  your  bein'  President.  Let 's  see  what 
stuff 's  in  ye,'  says  I.  So  they  're  doin'  well. 
Wrote  fur  me  to  come  out  in  the  fall.  But  I  'd 
rather  scratch  on,  and  gather  up  a  little  for 
Sophy  here,  before  I  stop  work." 

He  patted  Sophy's  tanned  little  hand  on  the 
table,  as  if  beating  some  soft  tune.  Holmes 
folded  up  the  bills.  Even  this  man  could  spare 
time  out  of  his  hard,  stingy  life  to  love,  and  be 
loved,  and  to  be  generous !  But  then  he  had 
no  higher  aim,  knew  nothing  better. 


130  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

"  Well,"  said  Pike,  rising,  "  in  case  you  take 
th'  mill,  Mr.  Holmes,  I  hope  we  '11  be  agreeable. 
I  '11  strive  to  do  my  best,"  —  in  the  old  fawning 
manner,  to  which  Holmes  nodded  a  curt  reply. 

The  man  stopped  for  Sophy  to  gather  up  her 
bits  of  broken  "  chayney "  with  which  she  was 
making  a  tea-party  on  the  table,  and  went 
down-stairs. 

Towards  evening  Holmes  went  out,  —  not 
going  through  the  narrow  passage  that  led  to 
the  offices,  but  avoiding  it  by  a  circuitous  route. 
If  it  cost  him  any  pain  to  think  why  he  did  it, 
he  showed  none  in  his  calm,  observant  face. 
Buttoning  up  his  coat  as  he  went :  the  October 
sunset  looked  as  if  it  ought  to  be  warm,  but 
he  was  deathly  cold.  On  the  street  the  young 
doctor  beset  him  again  with  bows  and  news : 
Cox  was  his  name,  I  believe ;  the  one,  you  re 
member,  who  had  such  a  Talleyrand  nose  for 
ferreting  out  successful  men.  He  had  to  bear 
with  him  but  for  a  few  moments,  however. 
They  met  a  crowd  of  workmen  at  the  corner, 
one  of  whom,  an  old  man  freshly  washed,  with 
honest  eyes  looking  out  of  horn  spectacles, 
waited  for  them  by  a  fire-plug.  It  was  Polston, 
the  coal-digger,  —  an  acquaintance,  a  far-off 
kinsman  of  Holmes,  in  fact. 

"  Curious  person  making  signs  to  you,  yon 
der,"  said  Cox  ;  "  hand,  I  presume." 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  131 

"  My  cousin  Polston.  If  you  do  not  know 
him,  you  '11  excuse  me  ?  " 

Cox  sniffed  the  air  down  the  street,  and 
twirled  his  rattan,  as  he  went.  The  coal-dig 
ger  was  abrupt  and  distant  in  his  greeting, 
going  straight  to  business. 

"  I  will  keep  yoh  only  a  minute,  Mr. 
Holmes  " 

"  Stephen,"  corrected  Holmes. 

The  old  man's  face  warmed. 

"  Stephen,  then,"  holding  out  his  hand,  "  sence 
old  times  dawn't  shame  yoh,  Stephen.  That  's 
hearty,  now.  It  's  only  a  wured  I  want,  but 
it 's  immediate.  Concernin'  Joe  Yare, —  Lois's 
father,  yoh  know  ?  He  's  back." 

"  Back  ?  I  saw  him  to-day,  following  me  in 
the  mill.  His  hair  is  gray  ?  I  think  it  was  he." 

"  No  doubt.  Yes,  he  's  aged  fast,  down  in  the 
lock-up ;  goin'  fast  to  the  end.  Feeble,  pore- 
like.  It  's  a  bad  life,  Joe  Yare's  ;  I  wish  'n'  't 
would  be  better  to  the  end  " 

He  stopped  with  a  wistful  look  at  Holmes, 
who  stood  outwardly  attentive,  but  with  little 
thought  to  waste  on  Joe  Yare.  The  old  coal- 
digger  drummed  on  the  fire-plug  uneasily. 

"  Myself,  't  was  for  Lois's  sake  I  thowt  on 
it.  To  speak  plain,  —  yoh  '11  mind  that  Stokes 
affair,  th'  note  Yare  forged  ?  Yes  ?  Ther'  's 
none  knows  o'  that  but  yoh  an'  me.  He  's  safe, 


132  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

Yare  is,  only  fur  yoh  an'  me.  Yob  speak  the 
jvured  an'  back  he  goes  to  the  lock-up.  Fur 
life.  D'  yoh  see  ?  " 

«  I  see." 

"  He  's  tryin'  to  do  right,  Yare  is." 

The  old  man  went  on,  trying  not  to  be  eager, 
and  watching  Holmes's  face. 

"  He  's  tryin'.  Sendin'  him  back  —  yoh  know 
how  that  '11  end.  Seems  like  as  we  'd  his  soul 
in  our  hands.  S'pose,  —  what  d'  yoh  think,  if 
we  give  him  a  chance  ?  It  's  yoh  he  fears.  I 
see  him  a-watchin'  yoh  ;  what  d'  yoh  think,  if 
we  give  him  a  chance  ? "  catching  Holmes's 
sleeve.  «  He  's  old,  an'  he  's  tryin'.  Heh  ?  " 

Holmes  smiled. 

"  We  did  n't  make  the  law  he  broke.  Justice 
before  mercy.  Have  n't  I  heard  you  talk  to 
Sam  in  that  way,  long  ago  ?  " 

The  old  man  loosened  his  hold  of  Holmes's 
arm,  looked  up  and  down  the  street,  uncertain, 
disappointed. 

"  The  law.  Yes.  That 's  right !  Yoh  're  a 
just  man,  Stephen  Holmes." 

«  And  yet  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  dun'no'.  Law  's  right,  but  Yare  's 
had  a  bad  chance,  an'  he  's  tryin'.  An'  we  're 
sendin'  him  to  hell.  Somethin'  's  wrong.  But 
I  think  yoh  're  a  just  man,"  looking  keenly  in 
Holmes's  face. 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  133 

"  A  hard  one,  people  say,"  said  Holmes,  after 
a  pause,  as  they  walked  on. 

He  had  spoken  half  to  himself,  and  received 
no  answer.  Some  blacker  shadow  troubled  him 
than  old  Yare's  fate. 

"  My  mother  was  a  hard  woman, — you  knew 
her  ?  "  he  said,  abruptly. 

"  She  was  just,  like  yoh.  She  was  one  o'  th' 
elect,  she  said.  Mercy  's  fur  them,  —  an'  out 
side,  justice.  It  's  a  narrer  showin',  I  'm  think- 
in'." 

"  My  father  was  outside,"  said  Holmes,  some 
old  bitterness  rising  up  in  his  tone,  his  gray  eye 
lighting  with  some  unrevenged  wrong. 

Polston  did  not  speak  for  a  moment. 

"  Dunnot  bear  malice  agin  her.  They  're 
dead,  now.  It  was  n't  left  fur  her  to  judge 
him  out  yonder.  Yoh  've  yer  father's  eyes, 
Stephen,  'times.  Hungry,  pitiful,  like  women's. 
His  got  desper't'  't  th'  last.  Drunk  hard, —  died 
of  't,  yoh  know.  But  she  killed  him,  —  th'  sin 
was  writ  down  fur  her.  Never  was  a  boy  I 
loved  like  him,  when  we  was  boys." 

There  was  a  short  silence. 

"  Yoh  're  like  yer  mother,"  said  Polston,  striv 
ing  for  a  lighter  tone.  "  Here,"  —  motioning  to 
the  heavy  iron  jaws.  "She  never  —  let  go. 
Somehow,  too,  she  'd  the  law  on  her  side  in 
outward  showin',  an'  th'  right.  But  I  hated 


134  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

religion,  knowin'  her.  Well,  ther'  's  a  day  of 
makin'  things  clear,  comin'." 

They  had  reached  the  corner  now,  and  Pol- 
ston  turned  down  the  lane. 

«  Yoh  '11  think  o'  Yare's  case  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes.  But  how  can  I  help  it,"  Holmes  said, 
lightly,  "  if  I  am  like  my  mother,  here  ?  "  — 
putting  his  hand  to  his  mouth. 

God  help  us,  how  can  yoh  ?  It 's  harrd  to 
think  father  and  mother  leave  their  souls  fight- 
in'  in  their  childern,  cos  th'  love  was  wantin'  to 
make  them  one  here." 

Something  glittered  along  the  street  as  he 
spoke  :  the  silver  mountings  of  a  low-hung 
phaeton  drawn  by  a  pair  of  Mexican  ponies. 
One  or  two  gentlemen  on  horseback  were 
alongside,  attendant  on  a  lady  within,  Miss 
Herne.  She  turned  her  fair  face,  and  pale, 
greedy  eyes,  as  she  passed,  and  lifted  her  hand 
languidly  in  recognition  of  Holmes.  Polston's 
face  coloured. 

"  I  've  heered,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  grimy 
hand.  "  I  wish  yoh  well,  Stephen,  boy.  So  '11 
the  old  'oman.  Yoh  '11  come  an'  see  us,  soon  ? 
Ye  V  lookin'  fagged,  an'  yer  eyes  is  gettin'  more 
like  yer  father's.  I  'm  glad  things  is  takin'  a 
good  turn  with  yoh  ;  an'  yoh  '11  never  be  like 
him,  starvin'  fur  th'  kind  wured,  an'  havin'  to 
die  without  it.  I  'm  glad  yoh  've  got  true  love. 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  135 

She  'd  a  fair  face,  I  think.     I  wish  yoh  well, 
Stephen." 

Holmes  shook  the  grimy  hand,  and  then 
stood  a  moment  looking  back  to  the  mill, 
from  which  the  hands  were  just  coming,  and 
then  down  at  the  phaeton  moving  idly  down 
the  road.  How  cold  it  was  growing !  People 
passing  by  had  a  sickly  look,  as  if  they  were 
struck  by  the  plague.  He  pushed  the  damp 
hair  back,  wiping  his  forehead,  with  another 
glance  at  the  mill-women  coming  out  of  the 
gate,  and  then  followed  the  phaeton  down  the 
hill. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

AN  hour  after,  the  evening  came  on  sultry,  the 
air  murky,  opaque,  with  yellow  trails  of  colour 
dragging  in  the  west :  a  sullen  stillness  in  the 
woods  and  farms  ;  only,  in  fact,  that  dark,  in 
explicable  hush  that  precedes  a  storm.  But 
Lois,  coming  down  the  hill-road,  singing  to  her 
self,  and  keeping  time  with  her  whip-end  on  the 
wooden  measure,  stopped  when  she  grew  con 
scious  of  it.  It  seemed  to  her  blurred  fancy 
more  than  a  deadening  sky :  a  something  solemn 
and  unknown,  hinting  of  evil  to  come.  The 
dwarf-pines  on  the  road-side  scowled  weakly  at 
her  through  the  gray ;  the  very  silver  minnows 
in  the  pools  she  passed,  flashed  frightened  away, 
and  darkened  into  the  muddy  niches.  There 
was  a  vague  dread  in  the  sudden  silence.  She 
called  to  the  old  donkey,  and  went  faster  down 
the  hill,  as  if  escaping  from  some  overhanging 
peril,  unseen.  She  saw  Margret  coming  up  the 
road.  There  was  a  phaeton  behind  Lois,  and 
some  horsemen  :  she  jolted  the  cart  off  into  the 
stones  to  let  them  pass,  seeing  Mr.  Holmes's 
face  in  the  carriage  as  she  did  so.  He  did  not 
look  at  her ;  had  his  head  turned  towards  the 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  137 

gray  distance.  Lois's  vivid  eye  caught  the  full 
meaning  of  the  woman  beside  him.  The  face 
hurt  her  :  not  fair,  as  Polston  called  it :  vapid 
and  cruel.  She  was  dressed  in  yellow :  the 
colour  seemed  jeering  and  mocking  to  the  girl's 
sensitive  instinct,  keenly  alive  to  every  trifle. 
She  did  not  know  that  it  is  the  colour  of  shams, 
and  that  women  like  this  are  the  most  deadly 
of  shams.  As  the  phaeton  went  slowly  down, 
Margret  came  nearer,  meeting  it  on  the  road 
side,  the  dust  from  the  wheels  stifling  the  air. 
Lois  saw  her  look  up.  and  then  suddenly  stand 
still,  holding  to  the  fence,  as  they  met  her. 
Holmes's  cold,  wandering  eye  turned  on  the 
little  dusty  figure  standing  there,  poor  and 
despised.  Polston  called  his  eyes  hungry :  it 
was  a  savage  hunger  that  sprang  into  them 
now ;  a  gray  shadow  creeping  over  his  set  face, 
as  he  looked  at  her,  in  that  flashing  moment. 
The  phaeton  was  gone  in  an  instant,  leaving 
her  alone  in  the  road.  One  of  the  men  looked 
back,  and  then  whispered  something  to  the  lady 
with  a  laugh.  She  turned  to  Holmes,  when  he 
had  finished,  fixing  her  light,  confusing  eyes  on 
his  face,  and  softening  her  voice. 

"  Fred  swears  that  woman  we  passed  was 
your  first  love.  Were  you,  then,  so  chivalric  ? 
Was  it  to  have  been  a  second  romaunt  of  '  King 
Cophetua  and  the  Beggar  Maid  ? '  " 


138  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

He  met  her  look,  and  saw  the  fierce  demand 
through  the  softness  and  persiflage/  He  gave 
it  no  answer,  but,  turning  to  her,  kindled  into 
the  man  whom  she  was  so  proud  to  show  as  her 
capture,  —  a  man  far  off  from  Stephen  Holmes. 
Brilliant  she  called  him,  —  frank,  winning,  gen 
erous.  She  thought  she  knew  him  well ;  held 
him  a  slave  to  her  fluttering  hand.  Being  proud 
of  her  slave,  she  let  the  hand  flutter  down  now 
somehow  with  some  flowers  it  held  until  it 
touched  his  hard  fingers,  her  cheek  flushing 
into  rose.  The  nerveless,  spongy  hand,  —  what 
a  death-grip  it  had  on  his  life  !  He  did  not 
look  back  once  at  the  motionless,  dusty  figure 
on  the  road.  What  was  that  Polston  had  said 
about  starving  to  death  for  a  kind  word  ?  Love  ? 
He  was  sick  of  the  sickly  talk,  —  crushed  it  out 
of  his  heart  with  a  savage  scorn.  He  remem 
bered  his  father,  the  night  he  died,  had  said  in 
his  weak  ravings  that  God  was  love.  Was  He  ? 
No  wonder,  then,  He  ^was  the  God  of  women, 
and  children,  and  unsuccessful  men.  For  him, 
he  was  done  with  it.  He  was  here  with  stronger 
purpose  than  to  yield  to  weaknesses  of  the  flesh. 
He  had  made  his  choice,  —  a  straight,  hard  path 
upwards ;  he  was  deaf  now  and  forever  to  any 
word  of  kindness  or  pity.  As  for  this  woman 
beside  him,  he  would  be  just  to  her,  in  justice 
to  himself:  she  never  should  know  the  loathing 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  139 


in  his  heart :  just  to  her  as  to  all  living  creatures. 
Some  little,  mean  doubt  kept  up  a  sullen  whis 
per  of  bought  and  sold,  —  sold,  —  but  he  laughed 
it  down.  He  sat  there  with  his  head  steadily 
turned  towards  her :  a  kingly  face,  she  called  it, 
and  she  was  right,  —  it  was  a  kingly  face  :  with 
the  same  shallow,  fixed  smile  on  his  mouth,  — 
no  weary  cry  went  up  to  God  that  day  so  ter 
rible  in  its  pathos,  I  think :  with  the  same  dull 
consciousness  that  this  was  the  trial  night  of  his 
life,  —  that  with  theTiomely  figure  on  the  road 
side  he  had  turned  his  back  on  love  and  kindly 
happiness  and  warmth,  on  all  that  was  weak 
and  useless  in  the  world.  He  had  made  his 
choice;  he  would  abide  by  it,  —  he  would  abide 
by  it.  He  said  that  over  and  over  again,  dulling 
down  the  death-gnawing  of  his  outraged  heart. 

Miss  Herne  was  quite  contented,  sitting  by 
him,  with  herself,  and  the  admiring  world.  She 
had  no  notion  of  trial  nights  in  life.  Not  many 
temptations  pierced  through  her  callous,  flabby 
temperament  to  sting  her  to  defeat  or  triumph. 
There  was  for  her  no  under-current  of  conflict, 
in  these  people  whom  she  passed,  between  self 
and  the  unseen  power  that  Holmes  sneered  at, 
wThose  name  was  love ;  they  were  nothing  but 
movables,  pleasant  or  ugly  to  look  at,  well-  or 
ill-dressed.  There  were  no  dark  iron  bars  across 
her  life  for  her  soul  to  clutch  and  shake  madly, 


140  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

—  nothing  "  in  the  world  amiss,  to  be  unriddled 
by  and  by."  Little  Margret,  sitting  by  the 
muddy  road,  digging  her  fingers  dully  into  the 
clover-roots,  while  she  looked  at  the  spot  where 
the  wheels  had  passed,  looked  at  life  differently, 
it  may  be ;  —  or  old  Joe  Yare  by  the  furnace- 
fire,  his  black  face  and  gray  hair  bent  over  a 
torn  old  spelling-book  Lois  had  given  him.  The 
night,  perhaps,  was  going  to  be  more  to  them 
than  so  many  rainy  hours  for  sleeping,  —  the 
time  to  be  looked  back  on  through  coming  lives 
as  the  hour  when  good  and  ill  came  to  them, 
and  they  made  their  choice,  and,  as  Holmes 
said,  did  abide  by  it. 

It  grew  cool  and  darker.  Holmes  left  the 
phaeton  before  they  entered  town,  and  turned 
back.  He  was  going  to  see  this  Margret  Howth, 
tell  her  what  he  meant  to  do.  Because  he  was 
going  to  leave  a  clean  record.  No  one  should 
accuse  him  of  want  of  honour.  This  girl  alone 
of  all  living  beings  had  a  right  to  see  him  as  he 
stood,  justified  to  himself.  Why  she  had  this 
right,  I  do  not  think  he  answered  to  himself. 
Besides,  he  must  see  her,  if  only  on  business. 
She  must  keep  her  place  at  the  mill :  he  would 
not  begin  his  new  life  by  an  act  of  injustice, 
taking  the  bread  out  of  Margret's  mouth.  Little 
Margret  !  He  stopped  suddenly,  looking  down 
into  a  deep  pool  of  water  by  the  road-side. 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  141 

What  madness  of  weariness  crossed  his  brain 
just  then  I  do  not  know.  He  shook  it  off. 
Was  he  mad.  Life  was  worth  more  to  him 
than  to  other  men,  he  thought ;  and  perhaps  he 
was  right.  He  went  slowly  through  the  cool 
dusk,  looking  across  the  fields,  up  at  the  pale, 
frightened  face  of  the  moon  hooded  in  clouds : 
he  did  not  dare  to  look,  with  all  his  iron  nerve, 
at  the  dark  figure  beyond  him  on  the  road.  She 
was  sitting  there  just  where  he  had  left  her  :  he 
knew  she  would  be.  When  he  came  closer,  she 
got  up,  not  looking  towards  him ;  but  he  saw 
her  clasp  her  hands  behind  her,  the  fingers  pluck 
ing  weakly  at  each  other.  It  was  an  old,  child 
ish  fashion  of  hers,  when  she  was  frightened  or 
hurt.  It  would  only  need  a  word,  and  he  could  be 
quiet  and  firm, —  she  was  such  a  child  compared 
to  him :  he  always  had  thought  of  her  so.  He 
went  on  up  to  her  slowly,  and  stopped ;  when 
she  looked  at  him,  he  untied  the  linen  bonnet 
that  hid  her  face,  and  threw  it  back.  How  thin 
and  tired  the  little  face  had  grown !  Poor  child  ! 
He  put  his  strong  arm  kindly  about  her,  and 
stooped  to  kiss  her  hand,  but  she  drew  it  away. 
God  !  what  did  she  do  that  for  ?  Did  not  she 
know  that  he  could  put  his  head  beneath  her 
foot  then,  he  was  so  mad  with  pity  for  the 
woman  he  had  wronged  ?  Not  love,  he  thought, 
controlling  himself,  —  it  was  only  justice  to  be 
kind  to  her. 


142  MARGRET   HOWTH. 

"  You  have  been  ill,  Margret,  these  two  years, 
while  I  was  gone  ?  " 

He  could  not  hear  her  answer ;  only  saw  that 
she  looked  up  with  a  white,  pitiful  smile.  Only 
a  word  it  needed,  he  thought,  —  very  kind  and 
firm :  and  he  must  be  quick,  —  he  could  not 
bear  this  long.  But  he  held  the  little  worn 
fingers,  stroking  them  with  an  unutterable  ten 
derness. 

"  You  must  let  these  fingers  work  for  me, 
Margret,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  when  I  am  master 
in  the  mill." 

"  It  is  true,  then,  Stephen  ?  " 

"  It  is  true,  —  yes." 

She  lifted  her  hand  to  her  head,  uncertainly  : 
he  held  it  tightly,  and  then  let  it  go.  What 
right  had  he  to  touch  the  dust  upon  her  shoes, 
—  he,  bought  and  sold  ?  She  did  not  speak  for 
a  time ;  when  she  did,  it  was  a  weak  and  sick 
voice. 

"  I  am  glad.  I  saw  her,  you  know.  She  is 
very  beautiful." 

The  fingers  were  plucking  at  each  other 
again  ;  and  a  strange,  vacant  srnile  on  her 
face,  trying  to  look  glad. 

"You  love  her,  Stephen?" 

He  was  quiet  and   firm  enough  now. 

"  I  do  not.  Her  money  will  help  me  to  be 
come  what  I  ought  to  be.  She  does  not  care 


MARGRET   HOWTH.  143 

for  love.  You  want  me  to  succeed,  Margret? 
No  one  ever  understood  me  as  you  did,  child 
though  you  were." 

Her  whole  face  glowed. 

"  I  know !    I  know !     I  did  understand  you ! " 

She  said,  lower,  after  a  little  while,  — 

"  I  knew  you  did  not  love  her." 

"  There  is  no  such  thing  as  love  in  real  life," 
he  said,  in  his  steeled  voice.  "  You  will  know 
that,  when  you  grow  older.  I  used  to  believe 
in  it  once,  myself." 

She  did  not  speak,  only  watched  the  slow 
motion  of  his  lips,  not  looking  into  his  eyes, 
—  as  she  used  to  do  in  the  old  time.  What 
ever  secret  account  lay  between  the  souls  of  this 
man  and  woman  came  out  now,  and  stood  bare 
on  their  faces. 

"  I  used  to  think  that  I,  too,  loved,"  he  went 
on,  in  his  low,  hard  tone.  "  But  it  kept  me  back, 
Margret,  and  " 

He  was  silent. 

"  I  know,  Stephen.     It  kept  you  back  " 

"  And  I  put  it  away.  I  put  it  away  to-night, 
forever." 

She  did  not  speak ;  stood  quite  quiet,  her 
head  bent  on  her  breast.  His  conscience  was 
clear  now.  But  he  almost  wished  he  had  not 
said  it,  she  was  such  a  weak,  sickly  thing.  She 
sat  down  at  last,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands, 


144  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

with  a  shivering  sob.  He  dared  not  trust  him 
self  to  speak  again. 

"  I  am  not  proud,  —  as  a  woman  ought  to  be," 
she  said,  wearily,  when  he  wiped  her  clammy 
forehead. 

"  You  loved  me,  then  ?  "  he  whispered. 

Her  face  flashed  at  the  unmanly  triumph ;  her 
puny  frame  started  up,  away  from  him. 

"  I  did  love  you,  Stephen.  I  did  love  you,  — 
as  you  might  be,  not  as  you  are,  —  not  with 
those  inhuman  eyes.  I  do  understand  you, — 
I  do.  I  know  you  for  a  better  man  than  you 
know  yourself  this  night." 

She  turned  to  go.  He  put  his  hand  on  her 
arm  ;  something  we  have  never  seen  on  his  face 
struggled  up,  —  the  better  soul  that  she  knew. 

"  Come  back,"  he  said,  hoarsely  ;  "  don't  leave 
me  with  myself.  Come  back,  Margret." 

She  did  not  come  ;  stood  leaning,  her  sudden 
strength  gone,  against  the  broken  wall.  There 
was  a  heavy  silence.  The  night  throbbed  slow 
about  them.  Some  late  bird  rose  from  the 
sedges  of  the  pool,  and  with  a  frightened  cry 
flapped  its  tired  wings,  and  drifted  into  the 
dark.  His  eyes,  through  the  gathering  shadow, 
devoured  the  weak,  trembling  body,  met  the 
soul  that  looked  at  him,  strong  as  his  own. 
Was  it  because  it  knew  and  trusted  him  that 
all  that  was  pure  and  strongest  in  his  crushed 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  145 

nature  struggled  madly  to  be  free  ?  He  thrust 
it  down  ;  the  self-learned  lesson  of  years  was 
not  to  be  conquered  in  a  moment. 

"  There  have  been  times,"  he  said,  in  a  smoth 
ered,  restless  voice,  "  when  I  thought  you  be^ 
longed  to  me.  Not  here,  but  before  this  life. 
My  soul  and  body  thirst  and  hunger  for  you, 
then,  Margret." 

She  did  not  answer  ;  her  hands  worked  feebly 
together,  the  dull  blood  fainting  in  her  veins. 

Knowing  only  that  the  night  yawned  intoler 
able  about  her,  that  she  was  alone,  —  going 
mad  with  being  alone.  No  thought  of  heaven 
or  God  in  her  soul :  her  craving  eyes  seeing  him 
only.  The  strong,  living  man  that  she  loved  : 
her  tired-out  heart  goading,  aching  to  lie  down 
on  his  brawny  breast  for  one  minute,  and  die 
there,  —  that  was  all. 

She  did  not  move :  underneath  the  pain  there 
was  power,  as  Knowles  thought. 

He  came  nearer,  and  held  up  his  arms  to 
where  she  stood,  —  the  heavy,  masterful  face 
pale  and  wet. 

"  I  need  you,  Margret.  I  shall  be  nothing 
without  you,  now.  Come,  Margret,  little  Mar- 
gret!" 

She  came  to  him,  then,  and  put  her  hands  in 
his. 

"  No,  Stephen,"  she  said. 


146  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

If  there  were  any  pain  in  her  tone,  she  kept  it 
down,  for  his  sake. 

"  Never,  I  could  never  help  you,  —  as  you  are. 
It  might  have  been,  once.  Good-by,  Stephen." 

Her  childish  way  put  him  in  mind  of  the  old 
days  when  this  girl  was  dearer  to  him  than  his 
own  soul.  She  was  so  yet.  He  held  her  close 
to  his  breast,  looking  down  into  her  eyes.  She 
moved  uneasily;  she  dared  not  trust  herself. 

"  You  will  come  ?  "  he  said.  "  It  might  have 
been,  —  it  shall  be  again." 

"  It  may  be,"  she  said,  humbly.  "  God  is 
good.  And  I  believe  in  you,  Stephen.  I  will 
be  yours  some  time:  we 'cannot  help  it,  if  we 
would :  but  not  as  you  are." 

"  You  do  not  love  me  ?  "  he  said,  flinging  her 
off,  his  face  whitening. 

She  said  nothing,  gathered  her  damp  shawl 
around  her,  and  turned  to  go.  Just  a  moment 
they  stood,  looking  at  each  other.  If  the  dark 
square  figure  standing  there  had  been  an  iron 
fate  trampling  her  young  life  down  into  hope 
less  wretchedness,  she  forgot  it  now.  Women 
like  Margret  are  apt  to  forget.  His  eye  never 
abated  in  its  fierce  question. 

"  I  will  wait  for  you  yonder,  if  I  die  first,"  she 
whispered. 

He  came  closer,  waiting  for  an  answer. 

"  And  —  I  love  you,  Stephen." 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  147 

He  gathered  her  in  his  arms,  and  put  his  cold 
lips  to  hers,  without  a  word  ;  then  turned,  and 
left  her  slowly. 

She  made  no  sign,  shed  no  tear,  as  she  stood, 
watching  him  go.  It  was  all  over  :  she  had 
willed  it,  herself,  and  yet  —  he  could  not  go ! 
God  would  not  suffer  it!  Oh,  he  could  not 
leave  her,  —  he  could  not!  —  He  went  down  the 
hill,  slowly.  If  it  were  a  trial  of  life  and  death 
for  her,  did  he  know  or  care  ?  —  He  did  not  look 
back.  What  if  he  did  not?  his  heart  was  true ; 
he  suffered  in  going  ;  even  now  he  walked 
wearily.  God  forgive  her,  if  she  had  wronged 
him  !  —  What  did  it  matter,  if  he  were  hard  in 
this  life,  and  it  hurt  her  a  little?  It  would 
come  right,  —  beyond,  some  time.  But  life 
was  long.  —  She  would  not  sit  down,  sick  as 
she  was :  he  might  turn,  and  it  would  vex  him 
to  see  her  suffer.  —  He  walked  slowly ;  once  he 
stopped  to  pick  up  something.  She  saw  the 
deep-cut  face  and  half-shut  eyes.  How  often 
those  eyes  had  looked  into  her  soul,  and  it  had 
answered  !  They  never  would  look  so  any 
more.  —  There  was  a  tree  by  the  place  where 
the  road  turned  into  town.  If  he  came  back, 
he  would  be  sure  to  turn  there.  —  How  tired  he 
walked,  and  slow  !  —  If  he  was  sick,  that  beau 
tiful  woman  could  be  near  him,  —  help  him.  — 
She  never  would  touch  his  hand  again,  —  never 


148  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

again,  never, —  unless  he  came  back  now. — 
He  was  near  the  tree :  she  closed  her  eyes,  turn 
ing  away.  When  she  looked  again,  only  the 
bare  road  lay  there,  yellow  and  wet.  It  was 
over,  now. 

How  long  she  sat  there  she  did  not  know. 
She  tried  once  or  twice  to  go  to  the  house,  but 
the  lights  seemed  so  far  off  that  she  gave  it  up 
and  sat  quiet,  unconscious,  except  of  the  damp 
stone-wall  her  head  leaned  on,  and  the  stretch 
of  muddy  road.  Some  time,  she  knew  not 
when,  there  was  a  heavy  step  beside  her,  and 
a  rough  hand  shook  hers  where  she  stooped, 
feeblv  tracing  out  the  lines  of  mortar  between 
the  stones.  It  was  Knowles.  She  looked  up, 
bewildered. 

"  Hunting  catarrhs,  eh  ?  "  he  growled,  eying 
her  keenly.  "  Got  your  father  on  the  Bourbons, 
so  took  the  chance  to  come  and  find  you.  He  '11 
not  miss  me  for  an  hour.  That  man  has  a  nat 
ural  hankering  after  treason  against  the  people. 
Lord,  Margret!  what  a  stiff  old  head  he  >d  have 
carried  to  the  guillotine !  How  he  'd  have  looked 
at  the  canaille  !  " 

He  helped  her  up  gently  enough. 

"  Your  bonnet  's  like  a  wet  rag,"  —  with  a 
furtive  glance  at  the  worn-out  face.  A  hungry 
face  always,  with  her  life  unfed  by  its  stingy 
few  crumbs  of  good ;  but  to-night  it  was  vacant 
with  utter  loss. 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  149 

She  got  up,  trying  to  laugh  cheerfully,  and 
went  beside  him  down  the  road. 

"  You  saw  that  painted  Jezebel  to-night,  and" 
stopping  abruptly. 

She  had  not  heard  him,  and  he  followed  her 
doggedly,  with  an  occasional  snort  or  grunt  or 
other  inarticulate  damn  at  the  obstinate  mud. 
She  stopped  at  last,  with  a  quick  gasp.  Look 
ing  at  her,  he  chafed  her  limp  hands,  —  his  huge, 
uncouth  face  growing  pale.  When  she  was  bet 
ter,  he  said,  gravely,  — 

"  I  want  you,  Margret.  Not  at  home,  child. 
I  want  to  show  you  something." 

He  turned  with  her  suddenly  off  the  main 
road  into  a  by-path,  helping  her  along,  watching 
her  stealthily,  but  going  on  with  his  disjointed, 
bearish  growls.  If  it  stung  her  from  her  pain, 
vexing  her,  he  did  not  care. 

"  I  want  to  show  you  a  bit  of  hell :  outskirt. 
You  're  in  a  fit  state :  it  '11  do  you  good.  I  'm 
minister  there.  The  clergy  can't  attend  to  it 
just  now :  they  're  too  busy  measuring  God's 
truth  by  the  States'-Rights  doctrine,  or  the  Chi 
cago  Platform.  Consequence,  religion  yields  to 
majorities.  Are  you  able  ?  It 's  only  a  step." 

She  went  on  indifferently.  The  night  was 
breathless  and  dark.  Black,  wet  gusts  dragged 
now  and  then  through  the  skyless  fog,  striking 
her  face  with  a  chill.  The  Doctor  quit  talking, 


I/ 

150  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

hurrying  her,  watching  her  anxiously.  They 
came  at  last  to  the  railway-track,  with  long 
trains  of  empty  freight-cars. 

"  We  are  nearly  there,"  he  whispered.  "  It 's 
time  you  knew  your  work,  and  forgot  your 
weakness.  The  curse  of  pampered  generations. 
1  High  Norman  blood,'  —  pah  !" 

There  was  a  broken  gap  in  the  fence.  He 
led  her  through  it  into  a  muddy  yard.  Inside 
was  one  of  those  taverns  you  will  find  in  the 
suburbs  of  large  cities,  haunts  of  the  lowest 
vice.  This  one  was  a  smoky  frame,  standing 
on  piles  over  an  open  space  where  hogs  were 
rooting.  Half  a  dozen  drunken  Irishmen  were 
playing  poker  with  a  pack  of  greasy  cards  in  an 
out-house.  He  led  her  up  the  rickety  ladder  to 
the  one  room,  where  a  flaring  tallow-dip  threw 
a  saffron  glare  into  the  darkness.  A  putrid 
odour  met  them  at  the  door.  She  drew  back, 
trembling. 

"  Come  here ! "  he  said,  fiercely,  clutching  her 
hand.  "  Women  as  fair  and  pure  as  you  have 
come  into  dens  like  this,  —  and  never  gone 
away.  Does  it  make  your  delicate  breath 
faint?  And  you  a  follower  of  the  meek  and 
lowly  Jesus  !  Look  here !  and  here  ! " 

The  room  was  swarming  with  human  life. 
Women,  idle  trampers,  whiskey-bloated,  filthy, 
lay  half-asleep,  or  smoking,  on  the  floor,  and 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  151 

set  up  a  chorus  of  whining  begging  when  they 
entered.  Half-naked  children  crawled  about 
in  rags.  On  the  damp,  mildewed  walls  there 
was  hung  a  picture  of  the  Benicia  Boy,  and 
close  by,  Pio  Nono,  crook  in  hand,  with  the 
usual  inscription,  "  Feed  my  sheep."  The 
Doctor  looked  at  it. 

" '  Tu  es  Petrus,  et  super  hanc ' Good 

God !  what  is  truth  ?  "  he  muttered,  bitterly. 

He  dragged  her  closer  to  the  women,  through 
the  darkness  and  foul  smell. 

"  Look  in  their  faces,"  he  whispered.  "  There 
is  not  one  of  them  that  is  not  a  living  lie.  Can 
they  help  it?  Think  of  the  centuries  of  serf 
dom  and  superstition  through  which  their  blood 
has  crawled.  Come  closer,  —  here." 

In  the  corner  slept  a  heap  of  half-clothed 
blacks.  Going  on  the  underground  railroad 
to  Canada.  Stolid,  sensual  wretches,  with  here 
and  there  a  broad,  melancholy  brow,  and  des 
perate  jaws.  One  little  pickaninny  rubbed  its 
sleepy  eyes,  and  laughed  at  them. 

"  So  much  flesh  and  blood  out  of  the  market, 
unweighed !  " 

Margret  took  up  the  child,  kissing  its  brown 
face.  Knowles  looked  at  her. 

"  Would  you  touch  her?  I  forgot  you  were 
born  down  South.  Put  it  down,  and  come  on." 

They  went  out  of  the  door.  Margret  stopped, 
looking  back. 


152  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

"Did  I  call  it  a  bit  of  hell?  It's  only  a 
glimpse  of  the  under-life  of  America,  —  God 
help  us !  —  where  all  men  are  born  free  and 
equal." 

The  air  in  the  passage  grew  fouler.  She 
leaned  back  faint  and  shuddering.  He  did 
not  heed  her.  The  passion  of  the  man,  the 
terrible  pity  for  these  people,  came  out  of  his 
soul  now,  writhing  his  face,  and  dulling  his 
eyes. 

"  And  you,"  he  said,  savagely,  "  you  sit  by 
the  road-side,  with  help  in  your  hands,  and 
Christ  in  your  heart,  and  call  your  life  lost, 
quarrel  with  your  God,  because  that  mass  of 
selfishness  has  left  you,  —  because  you  are 
balked  in  your  puny  hope !  Look  at  these 
women.  What  is  their  loss,  do  you  think  ? 
Go  back,  will  you,  and  drone  out  your  life 
whimpering  over  your  lost  dream,  and  go  to 
Shakspeare  for  tragedy  when  you  want  it  ? 
Tragedy !  Come  here,  —  let  me  hear  what 
you  call  this." 

He  led  her  through  the  .passage,  up  a  nar 
row  flight  of  stairs.  An  old  woman  in  a  flar 
ing  cap  sat  at  the  top,  nodding,  —  wakening 
now  and  then,  to  rock  herself  to  and  fro,  and 
give  the  shrill  Irish  keen. 

"  You  know  that  stoker  who  was  killed  in 
the  mill  a  month  ago  ?  Of  course  not,  —  what 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  153 

are  such  people  to  you  ?  There  was  a  girl  who 
loved  him,  —  you  know  what  that  is  ?  She  's 
dead  now,  here.  She  drank  herself  to  death, 
—  a  most  unpicturesque  suicide.  I  want  you 
to  look  at  her.  You  need  not  blush  for  her 
life  of  shame,  now  ;  she  's  dead.  —  Is  Hetty 
here  ?  " 

The  woman  got  up. 

«  She  is,  Zur.  She  is,  Mem.  She  's  lookin' 
foine  in  her  Sunday  suit.  Shrouds  is  gone 
out,  Mem,  they  say." 

She  went  tipping  over  the  floor  to  something 
white  that  lay  on  a  board,  a  candle  at  the  head, 
and  drew  off  the  sheet.  A  girl  of  fifteen,  al 
most  a  child,  lay  underneath,  dead,  —  her  lithe, 
delicate  figure  decked  out  in  a  dirty  plaid  skirt, 
and  stained  velvet  bodice,  —  her  neck  and  arms 
bare.  The  small  face  was  purely  cut,  haggard, 
patient  in  its  sleep, — the  soft,  fair  hair  gathered 
off  the  tired  forehead.  Margret  leaned  over  her, 
shuddering,  pinning  her  handkerchief  about  the 
child's  dead  neck. 

"  How  young  she  is ! "  muttered  Knowles. 
"  Merciful  God,  how  young  she  is !  —  What 
is  that  you  say  ? "  sharply,  seeing  Margret's 
lips  move. 

" '  He  that  is  without  sin  among  you,  let 
him  first  cast  a  stone  at  her.'  " 

"  Ah,  child,  that  is  old-time  philosophy.     Put 


154  MARGKET  HOWTH. 

your  hand  here,  on  her  dead  face.  Is  your  loss 
like  hers  ?  "  he  said  lower,  looking  into  the  dull 
pain  in  her  eyes.  Selfish  pain  he  called  it. 

"  Let  me  go,"  she  said.     "  I  am  tired." 

He  took  her  out  into  the  cool,  open  road, 
leading  her  tenderly  enough,  —  for  the  girl  suf 
fered,  he  saw. 

"  What  will  you  do  ? "  he  asked  her  then. 
"  It  is  not  too  late,  —  will  you  help  me  save 
these  people  ?  " 

She  wrung  her  hands  helplessly. 

"  What  do  you  want  with  me  ?  "  she  cried. 
"  I  have  enough  to  bear." 

The  burly  black  figure  before  her  seemed  to 
tower  and  strengthen;  the  man's  face  in  the 
wan  light  showed  a  terrible  life-purpose  com 
ing  out  bare. 

"  I  want  you  to  do  your  work.  It  is  hard ; 
it  will  wear  out  your  strength  and  brain  and 
heart.  Give  yourself  to  these  people.  God 
calls  you  to  it.  There  is  none  to  help  them. 
Give  up  love,  and  the  petty  hopes  of  women. 
Help  me.  God  calls  you  to  the  work." 

She  went  on  blindly  :  he  followed  her.  For 
years  he  had  set  apart  this  girl  to  help  him  in 
his  scheme :  he  would  not  be  balked  now.  He 
had  great  hopes  from  his  plan  :  he  meant  to 
give  all  he  had:  it  was  the  noblest  of  aims. 
He  thought  some  day  it  would  work  like 


MARGRET   HOWTH.  155 

leaven  through  the  festering  mass  under  the 
country  he  loved  so  well,  and  raise  it  to  a  new 
life.  If  it  failed,  —  if  it  failed,  and  saved  one 
life,  his  work  was  not  lost.  But  it  could  not 
fail. 

"  Home ! "  he  said,  stopping  her  as  she 
reached  the  stile,  —  "oh,  Margret,  what  is 
home  ?  There  is  a  cry  going  up  night  and 
day  from  homes  like  that  den  yonder,  for  help, 
—  and  no  man  listens." 

She  was  weak  ;  her  brain  faltered. 

"  Does  God  call  me  to  this  work  ?  Does 
He  call  me  ? "  she  moaned. 

He  watched  her  eagerly. 

"  He  calls  you.  He  waits  for  your  answer. 
Swear  to  me  that  you  will  help  His  people. 
Give  up  father  and  mother  and  love,  and  go 
down  as  Christ  did.  Help  me  to  give  liberty 
and  truth  and  Jesus'  love  to  these  wretches  on 
the  brink  of  hell.  Live  with  them,  raise  them 
with  you." 

She  looked  up,  white  ;  she  was  a  weak,  weak 
woman,  sick  for  her  natural  food  of  love. 

«  Is   it   my  work  ?  " 

"  It  is  your  work.  Listen  to  me,  Margret," 
softly.  "  Who  cares  for  you  ?  You  stand 
alone  to-night.  There  is  not  a  single  human 
heart  that  calls  you  nearest  and  best.  Shiver, 
if  you  will,  —  it  is  true.  The  man  you  wasted 


156  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

your  soul  on  left  you  in  the  night  and  cold  to 
go  to  his  bride,  —  is  sitting  by  her  now,  hold 
ing  her  hand  in  his." 

He  waited  a  moment,  looking  down  at  her, 
until  she  should  understand. 

"  Do  you  think  you  deserved  this  of  God  ? 
I  know  that  yonder  on  the  muddy  road  you 
looked  up  to  Him,  and  knew  it  was  not  just; 
that  you  had  done  right,  and  this  was  your  re 
ward.  I  know  that  for  these  two  years  you 
have  trusted  in  the  Christ  you  worship  to  make 
it  right,  to  give  you  your  heart's  desire.  Did 
He  do  it  ?  Did  He  hear  your  prayer  ?  Does 
He  care  for  your  weak  love,  when  the  nations 
of  the  earth  are  going  down  ?  What  is  your 
poor  hope  to  Him,  when  the  very  land  you  live 
in  is  a  wine-press  that  will  be  trodden  some 
day  by  the  fierceness  and  wrath  of  Almighty 
God  ?  O  Christ !  —  if  there  be  a  Christ,  — 
help  me  to  save  it ! " 

He  looked  up,  —  his  face  white  with  pain. 
After  a  time  he  said  to  her, — 

"  Help  me,  Margret !  Your  prayer  was  self 
ish  ;  it  was  not  heard.  Give  up  your  idle  hope 
that  Christ  will  aid  you.  Swear  to  me,  this 
night  when  you  have  lost  all,  to  give  yourself 
to  this  work." 

The  storm  had  been  dark  and  windy:  it 
cleared  now  slowly,  the  warm  summer  rain 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  157 

falling  softly,  the  fresh  blue  stealing  broadly 
from  behind  the  gray.  It  seemed  to  Margret 
like  a  blessing ;  for  her  brain  rose  up  stronger, 
more  healthful. 

"  I  will  not  swear,"  she  said,  weakly.  "  I 
think  He  heard  my  prayer.  I  think  He  will 
answer  it.  He  was  a  man,  and  loved  as  we 
do.  My  love  is  not  selfish ;  it  is  the  best  gift 
God  has  given  me."  f 

Knowles  went  slowly  with  her  to  the  house. 
He  was  not  baffled.  He  knew  that  the  struggle 
was  yet  to  come  ;  that,  when  she  was  alone,  her 
faith  in  the  far-off  Christ  would  falter  ;  that  she 
would  grasp  at  this  work,  to  fill  her  empty  hands 
and  starved  heart,  if  for  no  other  reason,  —  to 
stifle  by  a  sense  of  duty  her  unutterable  feel 
ing  of  loss.  He  was  keenly  read  in  woman's 
heart,  this  Knowles.  He  left  her  silently,  and 
she  passed  through  the  dark  passage  to  her  own 
room. 

Putting  her  damp  shawl  off,  she  sat  down  on 
the  floor,  leaning  her  head  on  a  low  chair,  —  one 
her  father  had  given  her  for  a  Christmas  gift 
when  she  was  little.  How  fond  Holmes  and 
her  father  used  to  be  of  each  other !  Every 
Christmas  he  spent  with  them.  She  remem 
bered  them  all  now.  "  He  was  sitting  by  her 
now,  holding  her  hand  in  his."  She  said  that 
over  to  herself,  though  it  was  not  hard  to  under 
stand. 


158  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

After  a  long  time,  her  mother  came  with  a 
candle  to  the  door. 

"  Good-night,  Margret.  Why,  your  hair  is 
wet,  child!" 

For  Margret,  kissing  her  good-night,  had  laid 
her  head  down  a  minute  on  her  breast.  She 
stroked  the  hair  a  moment,  and  then  turned 
away. 

"^Mother,  could  you  stay  with  me  to-night  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  Maggie,  —  your  father  wants  me 
to  read  to  him." 

"  Oh,  I  know.  Did  he  miss  me  to-night,  — 
father?"  . 

"  Not  much  ;  we  were  talking  old  times  over, 

—  in  Virginia,  you  know." 
"  I  know  ;  good-night." 

She  went  back  to  the  chair.     Tige  was  there, 

—  for  he  used  to  spend  half  of  his  time  on  the 
farm.     She  put  her  arm  about  his  head.     God 
knows  how  lonely  the  poor  child  was  when  she 
drew  the  dog  so  warmly  to  her  heart :  not  for 
his  master's  sake  alone  ;  but  it  was  all  she  had. 
He  grew  tired  at  last,  and  whined,  trying  to  get 
out. 

"  Will  you  go,  Tige  ?  "  she  said,  and  opened 
the  window. 

He  jumped  out,  and  she  watched  him  going 
towards  town.  Such  a  little  thing,  it  was  ! 
But  not  even  a  dog  "  called  her  nearest  and 
best." 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  159 


Let  us  be  silent ;  the  story  of  the  night  is  not 
for  us  to  read.  Do  you  think  that  He,  who  in 
the  far,  dim  Life  holds  the  worlds  in  His  hand, 
knew  or  cared  how  alone  the  child  was  ?  What 
if  she  wrung  her  thin  hands,  grew  sick  with  the 
slow,  mad,  solitary  tears  ?  —  was  not  the  world 
to  save,  as  Knowles  said  ? 

He,  too,  had  been  alone ;  He  had  come  unto 
His  own,  and  His  own  received  him  not:  so, 
while  the  struggling  world  rested,  unconscious, 
in  infinite  calm  of  right,  He  came  close  to  her 
with  human  eyes  that  had  loved,  and  not  been 
loved,  and  had  suffered  with  that  pain.  And, 
trusting  Him,  she  only  said,  "  Show  me  my 
work !  Thou  that  takest  away  the  pain  of  the 
world,  have  mercy  upon  me ! " 


CHAPTER    VII. 

FOR  that  night,  at  least,  Holmes  swept  his 
soul  clean  of  doubt  and  indecision ;  one  of  his 
natures  was  conquered,  —  finally,  he  thought. 
Polston,  if  he  had  seen  his  face  as  he  paced  the 
street  slowly  home  to  the  mill,  would  have  re 
membered  his  mother's  the  day  she  died.  How 
the  stern  old  woman  met  death  half-way!  why 
should  she  fear?  she  was  as  strong  as  he. 
Wherein  had  she  failed  of  duty  ?  her  hands  were 
clean  :  she  was  going  to  meet  her  just  reward. 

It  was  different  with  Holmes,  of  course,  with 
\X  his  self-existent  soul.  It  was  life  he  accepted 
to-night,  he  thought,  —  a  life  of  growth,  labour, 
achievement,  —  eternal. 

"  Ohne  Hast,  aber  ohne  Rast"  —  favourite 
words  with  him.  He  liked  to  study  the  nature 
of  the  man  who  spoke  them  ;  because,  I  think, 
it  was  Like  his  own,  —  a  Titan  strength  of  en 
durance,  an  infinite  capability  of  love,  and  hate, 
and  suffering,  and  over  all,  (the  peculiar  iden 
tity  of  the  man,)  a  cold,  speculative  eye  of 
reason,  that  looked  down  into  the  passion  and 
depths  of  his  growing  self,  and  calmly  noted 
them,  a  lesson  for  all  time. 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  161 

"  Ohne  Hast"  Going  slowly  through  the 
night,  he  strengthened  himself  by  marking  how 
all  things  in  Nature  accomplish  a  perfected  life 
through  slow,  narrow  fixedness  of  purpose,  — 
each  life  complete  in  itself:  why  not  his  own, 
then  ?  The  windless  gray,  the  stars,  the  stone 
under  his  feet,  stood  alone  in  the  universe,  each 
working  out  its  own  soul  into  deed.  If  there 
were  any  all-embracing  harmony,  one  soul 
through  all,  he  did  not  see  it.  Knowles  —  that 
old  sceptic  —  believed  in  it,  and  called  it  Love. 
Even  Gothe  himself,  what  was  it  he  said? 
"  Der  Allumfasser,  der  Allerhalter^fasst  und  er- 
h'dlt  er  nichi,  dich,  mich,  sich  selbst  ?  " 

There  was  a  curious  power  in  the  words,  as 
he  lingered  over  them,  like  half-comprehended 
music,  —  as  simple  and  tender  as  if  they  had 
come  from  the  depths  of  a  woman's  heart :  it 
touched  him  deeper  than  his  power  of  control. 
Pah !  it  was  a  dream  of  Faust's ;  he,  too,  had 
his  Margaret;  he  fell,  through  that  love. 

He  went  on  slowly  to  the  mill.  If  the  name 
or  the  words  woke  a  subtile  remorse  or  longing, 
he  buried  them  under  restful  composure.  Wheth 
er  they  should  ever  rise  like  angry  ghosts  of  what 
might  have  been,  to  taunt  the  man,  only  the 
future  could  tell. 

Going  through  the  gas-lit  streets,  Holmes  met 
some  cordial  greeting  at  every  turn.  What  a 


162  MARGKET  HOWTH. 

just,  clever  fellow  he  was  !  people  said  :  one  of 
those  men  improved  by  success :  just  to  the 
defrauding  of  himself:  saw  the  true  worth  of 
everybody,  the  very  lowest :  had  n't  one  spark 
of  self-esteem :  despised  all  humbug  and  show, 
one  cjjmld  see,  though  he  never  said  it :  when  he 
was  a  boy,  he  was  moody,  with  passionate  likes 
and  dislikes ;  but  success  had  improved  him, 
vastly.  So  Holmes  was  popular,  though  the 
beggars  shunned  him,  and  the  lazy  Italian  organ- 
grinders  never  held  their  tambourines  up  to  him. 

The  mill  street  was  dark  ;  the  building  threw 
its  great  shadow  over  the  square.  It  was  empty, 
he  supposed  ;  only  one  hand  generally  remained 
to  keep  in  the  furnace-fires.  Going  through  one 
of  the  lower  passages,  he  heard  voices,  and 
turned  aside  to  examine.  The  management 
was  not  strict,  and  in  case  of  a  fire  the  mill  was 
not  insured  :  like  Knowles's  carelessness. 

It  was  Lois  and  her  father,  —  Joe  Yare  being 
feeder  that  night.  They  were  in  one  of  the 
great  furnace-rooms  in  the  cellar, —  a  very  com 
fortable  place  that  stormy  night.  Two  or  three 
doors  of  the  wide  brick  ovens  were  open,  and 
the  fire  threw  a  ruddy  glow  over  the  stone  floor, 
and  shimmered  into  the  dark  recesses  of  the 
shadows,  very  home-like  after  the  rain  and  mud 
without.  Lois  seemed  to  think  so,  at  any  rate, 
for  she  had  made  a  table  of  a  store-box,  put  a 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  163 

white  cloth  on  it,  and  was  busy  getting  up  a 
regular  supper  for  her  father,  —  down  on  her 
knees  before  the  red  coals,  turning  something 
on  an  iron  plate,  while  some  slices  of  ham  sent 
up  a  cloud  of  juicy,  hungry  smell. 

The  old  stoker  had  just  finished  slaking  the 
out-fires,  and  was  putting  some  blue  plates  on 
the  table,  gravely  straightening  them.  He  had 
grown  old,  as  Polston  said,  —  Holmes  saw, 
stooped  much,  with  a  low,  hacking  cough ;  his 
coarse  clothes  were  curiously  clean :  that  was 
to  please  Lois,  of  course.  She  put  the  ham  on 
the  table,  and  some  bubbling  coffee,  a«d  then, 
from  a  hickory  board  in  front  of  the  fire,  took 
off,  with  a  jerk,  brown,  flaky  slices  of  Virginia 
johnny-cake. 

«  Ther'  yoh  are,  father,  hot  V  hot,"  with  her 
face  on  fire,  —  "  ther'  —  yoh  —  are,  —  coaxin'  to 
be  eatin'.  —  Why,  Mr.  Holmes !  Father  !  Now, 
ef  yoh  jes'  hed  n't  hed  yer  supper  ?  " 

She  came  up,  coaxingly.  What  brooding 
brown  eyes  the  poor  cripple  had !  Not  many 
years  ago  he  would  have  sat  down  with  the 
two  poor  souls,  and  made  a  hearty  meal  of  it : 
he  had  no  heart  for  such  follies  now. 

Old  Yare  stood  in  the  background,  his  hat 
in  his  hand,  stooping  in  his  submissive  negro 
fashion,  with  a  frightened  watch  on  Holmes. 

"  Do  you  stay  here,  Lois  ?  "  he  asked,  kindly, 
turning  his  back  on  the  old  man. 


164  MARGRET   HOWTH. 

"  On'y  to  bring  his  supper.  I  could  n't  bide 
all  night  'n  th'  mill,"  —  the  old  shadow  coming 
on  her  face,  —  "I  could  n't,  yoh  know.  He 
does  n't  mind  it." 

She  glanced  quickly  from  one  to  the  other  in 
silence,  seeing  the  fear  on  her  father's  face. 

«  Yoh  know  father,  Mr.  Holmes  ?  He  's 
back  now.  This  is  him." 

The  old  man  came  forward,  humbly. 

"  It  's  me,  Marster  Stephen." 

The  sullen,  stealthy  face  disgusted  Holmes. 
He  nodded,  shortly. 

"  Yoh  've  been  kind  to  my  little  girl  while  I 
was  gone,"  he  said,  catching  his  breath.  "  I 
thank  yoh,  Marster." 

"  You  need  not.     It  was  for  Lois." 

"  'T  was  fur  her  I  corned  back  hyur.  'T  was 
a  resk,"  —  with  a  dumb  look  of  entreaty  at 
Holmes,  — "but  fur  her  I  thort  I  'd  try  it.  I 
know  't  was  a  resk  ;  but  I  thort  them  as  cared 
fur  Lo  wud  be  merciful.  She  's  a  good  girl, 
Lo.  She  's  all  I  hev." 

Lois  brought  a  box  over,  lugging  it  heavily. 

"  We  hev  n't  chairs ;  but  yoh  '11  sit  down, 
Mr.  Holmes  ?  "  laughing  as  she  covered  it  with 
a  cloth.  "  It  's  a  warm  place,  here.  Father 
studies  'n  his  watch,  'n'  I  'm  teacher,"  —  show 
ing  the  torn  old  spelling-book. 

The  old  man  came  eagerly  forward,  seeing 
the  smile  nicker  on  Holmes's  face. 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  165 

"  It  's  slow  work,  Marster,  —  slow.  But  Lo 
'3  a  good  teacher,  V  I  'm  tryin', —  I  'm  tryin' 
hard." 

t"  It  's  not  slow,  Sir,  seein'  father  hed  n't 
'dvantages,  like  me.  He  was  a" 

She  stopped,  lowering  her  voice,  a  hot  flush 
of  shame  on  her  face. 

«  I  know." 

"  Be  n't  that  'n  'xcuse,  Marster,  seein'  I 
knowed  noght  at  the  beginnin'  ?  Thenk  o' 
that,  Marster.  I  'm  tryin'  to  be  a  different 
man.  Fur  Lo.  I  am  tryiu'." 

Holmes  did  not  notice  him. 

"  Good-night,  Lois,"  he  said,  kindly,  as  she 
lighted  his  lamp. 

He  put  some  money  on  the  table. 

"  You  must  take  it,",  as  she  looked  uneasy. 
"  For  Tiger's  board,  say.  I  never  see  him  now. 
A  bright  new  frock,  remember." 

She  thanked  him,  her  eyes  brightening,  look 
ing  at  her  father's  patched  coat. 

The  old  man  followed  Holmes  out. 

"  Marster  Holmes  " 

"  Have  done  with  this,"  said  Holmes,  sternly. 
"  Whoeyer  breaks  law  abides  by  it.  It  is  no 
affair  of  mine." 

The  old  man  clutched  his  hands  together 
fiercely,  struggling  to  be  quiet. 

"  Ther'  's  none  knows  it  but  yoh,"  he  said, 


166  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

in  a  smothered  voice.  "  Fur  God's  sake  be 
merciful!  It  '11  kill  my  girl,  — it  '11  kill  her. 
Gev  me  a  chance,  Marster." 

"  You  trouble  me.     I  must  do  what  is  just." 

"  It  's  not  just,"  he  said,  savagely.  "  What 
good  '11  it  do  me  to  go  back  ther'  ?  I  was  goin' 
down,  down,  an'  bringin'  th'  others  with  me. 
What  good  '11  it  do  you  or  the  rest  to  hev  me 
ther'  ?  To  make  me  afraid  ?  It 's  poor  learn- 
in'  frum  fear.  Who  taught  me  what  was 
right  ?  Who  cared  ?  No  man  cared  fur  my 
soul,  till  I  thieved  'n'  robbed ;  'n'  then  judge 
V  jury  'n'  jailers  was  glad  to  pounce  on  me. 
Will  yoh  gev  me  a  chance  ?  will  yoh  ?  " 

It  was  a  desperate  face  before  him ;  but 
Holmes  never  knew  fear. 

"  Stand  aside,"  he  said,  quietly.  "  To-mor 
row  I  will  see  you.  You  need  not  try  to  es 
cape." 

He  passed  him,  and  went  slowly  up  through 
the  vacant  mill  to  his  chamber. 

The  man  sat  down  on  the  lower  step  a  few 
moments,  quite  quiet,  crushing  his  hat  up  in 
a  slow,  steady  way,  looking  up  at  the  mouldy 
cobwebs  on  the  wall.  He  got  up  at  last,  and 
went  in  to  Lois.  Had  she  heard?  The  old 
scarred  face  of  the  girl  looked  years  older,  he 
thought,  —  but  it  might  be  fancy.  She  did  not 
say  anything  for  a  while,  moving  slowly,  with 


MARGRET   HOWTH.  167 

a  new  gentleness,  about  him ;  her  very  voice 
was  changed,  older.  He  tried  to  be  cheerful, 
eating  his  supper:  she  need  not  know  until 
to-morrow.  He  would  get  out  of  the  town  to 
night,  or  — —  There  were  different  ways  to 
escape.  When  he  had  done,  he  told  her  to 
go ;  but  she  would  not. 

"  Let  me  stay  th'  night,"  she  said.  "  I  be 
n't  afraid  o'  th'  mill." 

"  Why,  Lo,"  he  said,  laughing,  "  yoh  used 
to  say  yer  death  was  hid  here,  somewheres." 

"  I  know.  But  ther'  's  worse  nor  death. 
But  it  'U  come  right,"  she  said,  persistently, 
muttering  to  herself,  as  she  leaned  her  face  on 
her  knees,  watching,  —  "  it  '11  come  right." 

The  glimmering  shadows  changed  and  faded 
for  an  hour.  The  man  sat  quiet.  There  was 
not  much  in  the  years  gone  to  soften  his 
thought,  as  it  grew  desperate  and  cruel :  there 
was  oppression  and  vice  heaped  on  him,  and 
flung  back  out  of  his  bitter  heart.  Nor  much 
in  the  future :  a  blank  stretch  of  punishment 
to  the  end.  He  was  an  old  man  :  was  it  easy 
to  bear  ?  What  if  he  were  black  ?  what  if  he 
were  born  a  thief?  what  if  all  the  sullen  re 
venge  of  his  nature  had  made  him  an  outcast 
from  the  poorest  poor  ?  Was  there  no  latent 
good  in  this  soul  for  which  Christ  died,  that  a 
kind  hand  might  not  have  brought  to  life  ? 


168  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

None  ?  Something,  I  think,  struggled  up  in 
the  touch  of  his  hand,  catching  the  skirt  of 
his  child's  dress,  when  it  came  near  him,  with 
the  timid  tenderness  of  a  mother  touching  her 
dead  baby's  hair,  —  as  something  holy,  far  off, 
yet  very  near:  something  in  his  old  crime- 
marked  face,  —  a  look  like  this  dog's,  putting 
his  head  on  my  knee,  —  a  dumb,  unhelpful 
love  in  his  eyes,  and  the  slow  memory  of  a 
wrong  done  to  his  soul  in  a  day  long  past. 
A  wrong  to  both,  you  say,  perhaps ;  but  if 
so,  irreparable,  and  never  to  be  recompensed. 
Never  ? 

"  Yoh  must  go,  my  little  girl,"  he  said  at  last. 

Whatever  he  did  must  be  done  quickly.  She 
came  up,  combing  the  thin  gray  hairs  through 
her  fingers. 

"  Father,  I  dunnot  understan'  what  it  is, 
rightly.  But  stay  with  me,  —  stay,  father  !  " 

"  Yoh  've  a  many  Men's,  Lo,"  he  said,  with 
a  keen  flash  of  jealousy.  "  Ther'  's  none  like 
yoh,  —  none." 

"Father,  look  here." 

She  put  her  misshapen  head  and  scarred 
face  down  on  his  hand,  where  he  could  see 
them.  If  it  had  ever  hurt  her  to  be  as  she  was, 
if  she  had  ever  compared  herself  bitterly  with 
fair,  beloved  women,  she  was  glad  now,  and 
thankful,  for  every  fault  and  deformity  that 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  169 

brought    her    nearer    to    him,    and    made    her 
dearer. 

"  They  're  kind,  but  ther'  's  not  many  loves 
me  with  true  love,  like  yoh.  Stay,  father ! 
Bear  it  out,  whatever  it  be.  Th'  good  time 
'11  come,  father." 

He  kissed  her,  saying  nothing,  and  went  with 
her  down  the  street.  When  he  left  her,  she 
waited,  and,  creeping  back,  hid  near  the  mill. 
God  knows  what  vague  dread  was  in  her 
brain  ;  but  she  came  back  to  watch  and  help. 

Old  Yare  wandered  through  the  great  loom- 
rooms  of  the  mill  with  but  one  fact  clear  in  his 
cloudy,  faltering  perception,  —  that  above  him 
the  man  lay  quietly  sleeping  who  would  bring 
worse  than  death  on  him  to-morrow.  Up  and 
down,  aimlessly,  with  his  stoker's  torch  in  his 
hand,  going  over  the  years  gone  and  the  years 
to  come,  with  the  dead  hatred  through  all  of 
the  pitiless  man  above  him,  —  with  now  and 
then,  perhaps,  a  pleasanter  thought  of  things 
that  had  been  warm  and  cheerful  in  his  life, 
—  of  the  corn-huskings  long  ago,  when  he  was 
a  boy,  down  in  "  th'  Alabarn'," —  of  the  scow 
his  young  master  gave  him  once,  the  first  thing 
he  really  owned :  he  was  almost  as  proud  of  it 
as  he  was  of  Lois  when  she  was  born.  Most 
of  all  remembering  the  good  times  in  his  life, 
he  went  back  to  Lois.  It  was  all  good,  there, 


170  MARGRET    HOWTH. 

to  go  back  to.  What  a  little  chub  she  used  to 
be !  Remembering,  with  bitter  remorse,  how 
all  his  life  he  had  meant  to  try  and  do  better, 
on  her  account,  but  had  kept  putting  off  and 

putting  off  until  now.  And  now Did 

nothing  lie  before  him  but  to  go  back  and  rot 
yonder  ?  Was  that  the  end,  because  he  never 
had  learned  better,  and  was  a  "  dam'  nigger  "  ? 

"  I  '11  not  leave  my  girl ! "  he  muttered,  going 
up  and  down,  —  "I  '11  not  leave  my  girl !  " 

If  Holmes  did  sleep  above  him,  the  trial  of 
the  day,  of  which  we  have  seen  nothing,  came 
back  sharper  in  sleep.  While  the  strong  self 
in  the  man  lay  torpid,  whatever  holier  power 
was  in  him  came  out,  undaunted  by  defeat, 
and  unwearied,  and  took  the  form  of  dreams, 
those  slighted  messengers  of  God,  to  soothe 
and  charm  and  win  him  out  into  fuller,  kind 
lier  life.  Let  us  hope  that  they  did  so  win 
him ;  let  us  hope  that  even  in  that  unreal 
world  the  better  nature  of  the  man  triumphed 
at  last,  and  claimed  its  reward  before  the  ter 
rible  reality  broke  upon  him. 

Lois,  over  in  the  damp,  fresh-smelling  lum 
ber-yard,  sat  coiled  up  in  one  of  the  creviced 
houses  made  by  the  jutting  boards.  She  re 
membered  how  she  used  to  play  in  them,  be 
fore  she  went  into  the  mill.  The  mill,  —  even 
now,  with  the  vague  dread  of  some  uncertain 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  171 

evil  to  come,  the  mill  absorbed  all  fear  in  its 
old  hated  shadow.  Whatever  danger  was  com 
ing  to  them  lay  in  it,  came  from  it,  she  knew, 
in  her  confused,  blurred  way  of  thinking.  It 
loomed  up  now,  with  the  square  patch  of 
ashen  sky  above,  black,  heavy  with  years  of 
remembered  agony  and  loss.  In  Lois's  hope 
ful,  warm  life  this  was  the  one  uncompre- 
hended  monster.  Her  crushed  brain,  her  un- 
wakened  powers,  resented  their  wrong  dimly 
to  the  mass  of  iron  and  work  and  impure 
smells,  unconscious  of  any  remorseless  power 
that  wielded  it.  It  was  a  monster,  she  thought, 
through  the  sleepy,  dreading  night,  —  a  mon 
ster  that  kept  her  wakeful  with  a  dull,  myste 
rious  terror. 

When  the  night  grew  sultry  and  deepest,  she 
started  from  her  half-doze  to  see  her  father 
come  stealthily  out  and  go  down  the  street. 
She  must  have  slept,  she  thought,  rubbing  her 
eyes,  and  watching  him  out  of  sight,  —  and 
then,  creeping  out,  turned  to  glance  at  the  mill. 
She  cried  out,  shrill  with  horror.  It  was  a  live 
monster  now,  —  in  one  swift  instant,  alive  with 
fire,  —  quick,  greedy  fire,  leaping  like  serpents' 
tongues  out  of  its  hundred  jaws,  hungry  sheets 
of  flame  maddening  and  writhing  towards  her, 
and  under  all  a  dull  and  hollow  roar  that  shook 
the  night.  Did  it  call  her  to  her  death  ?  She 


172  MARGRET    HOWTH. 

turned  to    fly,  and  then He   was    alone, 

dying!  He  had  been  so  kind  to  her!  She 
wrung  her  hands,  standing  there  a  moment. 
It  was  a  brave  hope  that  was  in  her  heart,  and 
a  prayer  on  her  lips  never  left  unanswered,  as 
she  hobbled,  in  her  lame,  slow  way,  up  to  the 
open  black  door,  and,  with  one  backward  look, 
went  in. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

THERE  was  a  dull  smell  of  camphor ;  a  far 
ther  sense  of  coolness  and  prickling  wet  on 
Holmes's  hot,  cracking  face  and  hands ;  then 
silence  and  sleep  again.  Sometime  —  when, 
he  never  knew  —  a  gray  light  stinging  his  eyes 
like  pain,  and  again  a  slow  sinking  into  warm, 
unsounded  darkness  and  unconsciousness.  It 
might  be  years,  it  might  be  ages.  Even  in 
after-life,  looking  back,  he  never  broke  that  time 
into  weeks  or  days :  people  might  so  divide  it 
for  him,  but  he  was  uncertain,  always  :  it  was 
a  vague  vacuum  in  his  memory:  he  had  drifted 
out  of  coarse,  measured  life  into  some  out-coast 
of  eternity,  and  slept  in  its  calm.  When,  by 
long  degrees,  the  shock  of  outer  life  jarred  and 
woke  him,  it  was  feebly  done :  he  came  back 
reluctant,  weak  :  the  quiet  clinging  to  him,  as 
if  he  had  been  drowned  in  Lethe,  and  had 
brought  its  calming  mist  with  him  out  of  the 
shades. 

The  low  chatter  of  voices,  the  occasional  lift 
ing  of  his  head  on  the  pillow,  the  very  sooth- 


174  MARGRET    HOWTH. 

ing  draught,  came  to  him  unreal  at  first :  parts 
only  of  the  dull,  lifeless  pleasure.  There  was 
a  sharper  memory  pierced  it  sometimes,  mak 
ing  him  moan  and  try  to  sleep,  —  a  remem 
brance  of  great,  cleaving  pain,  of  falling  gid 
dily,  of  owing  life  to  some  one,  and  being 
angry  that  he  owed  it,  in  the  pain.  Was  it 
he  that  had  borne  it  ?  He  did  not  know,  — 
nor  care :  it  made  him  tired  to  think.  Even 
when  he  heard  the  name,  Stephen  Holmes,  it 
had  but  a  far-off  meaning :  he  never  woke 
enough  to  know  if  it  were  his  or  not.  He 
learned,  long  after,  to  watch  the  red  light  curl 
ing  among  the  shavings  in  the  grate  when  they 
made  a  fire  in  the  evenings,  to  listen  to  the 
voices  of  the  women  by  the  bed,  to  know  that 
the  pleasantest  belonged  to  the  one  with  the 
low,  shapeless  figure,  and  to  call  her  Lois, 
when  he  wanted  a  drink,  long  before  he  knew 
himself. 

They  were  very  long,  pleasant  days  in  early 
December.  The  sunshine  was  pale,  but  it 
suited  his  hurt  eyes  better:  it  crept  slowly  in 
the  mornings  over  the  snuff-coloured  carpet  on 
the  floor,  up  the  brown  foot-board  of  the  bed, 
and,  when  the  wind  shook  the  window-cur 
tains,  made  little  crimson  pools  of  mottled 
light  over  the  ceiling,  —  curdling  pools,  that 
he  liked  to  watch  :  going  off,  from  the  clean 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  175 

gray  walls,  and  rustling  curtain,  and  transpar 
ent  crimson,  into  sleeps  that  lasted  all  day. 

He  was  not  conscious  how  he  knew  he  was 
in  a  hospital :  but  he  did  know  it,  vaguely ; 
thought  sometimes  of  the  long  halls  outside 
of  the  door,  with  ranges  of  rooms  opening  into 
them,  like  this,  and  of  very  barns  of  rooms  on 
the  other  side  of  the  building  with  rows  of 
white  cots  where  the  poorer  patients  lay :  a 
stretch  of  travel  from  which  his  brain  came 
back  to  his  snug  fireplace,  quite  tired,  and  to 
Lois  sitting  knitting  by  it.  He  called  the  little 
Welsh-woman,  "  Sister,"  too,  who  used  to  come 
in  a  stuff  dress,  and  white  bands  about  her  face, 
to  give  his  medicine,  and  gossip  with  Lois  in 
the  evening :  she  had  a  comical  voice,  like  a 
cricket  chirping.  There  was  another  with  a 
real  Scotch  brogue,  who  came  and  listened 
sometimes,  bringing  a  basket  of  undarned  stock 
ings  :  the  doctor  told  him  one  day  how  fearless 
and  skilful  she  was,  every  summer  going  to 
New  Orleans  when  the  yellow  fever  came. 
She  died  there  the  next  June :  but  Holmes 
never,  somehow,  could  realize  a  martyr  in  the 
cheery,  freckled-faced  woman  whom  he  always 
remembered  darning  stockings  in  the  quiet  fire 
light.  It  was  very  quiet  ;  the  voices  about 
him  were  pleasant  and  low.  If  he  had  drifted 
from  any  shock  of  pain  into  a  sleep  like  death, 

8* 


176  MAEGRET  HOWTH. 

some  of  the  stillness  hung  about  him  yet ; 
but  the  outer  life  was  homely  and  fresh  and 
natural. 

The  doctor  used  to  talk  to  him  a  little ;  and 
sometimes  one  or  two  of  the  patients  from  the 
eye-ward  would  grow  tired  of  sitting  about  in 
the  garden-alleys,  and  would  loiter  in,  if  Lois 
would  give  them  leave ;  but  their  talk  wearied 
him,  jarred  him  as  strangely  as  if  one  had  be 
gun  on  politics  and  price-currents  to  the  silent 
souls  in  Hades.  It  was  enough  thought  for 
him  to  listen  to  the  whispered  stories  of  the 
sisters  in  the  long  evenings,  and,  half-heard, 
try  and  make  an  end  to  them ;  to  look  drowsily 
down  into  the  garden,  where  the  afternoon  sun 
shine  was  still  so  summer-like  that  a  few  holly 
hocks  persisted  in  showing  their  honest  red  faces 
along  the  walls,  and  the  very  leaves  that  filled 
the  paths  would  not  wither,  but  kept  up  a 
wholesome  ruddy  brown.  One  of  the  sisters 
had  a  poultry-yard  in  it,  which  he  could  see  : 
the  wall  around  it  was  of  stone  covered  with 
a  brown  feathery  lichen,  which  every  rooster 
in  that  yard  was  determined  to  stand  on,  or 
perish  in  the  attempt ;  and  Holmes  would 
watch,  through  the  quiet,  bright  mornings,  the 
frantic  ambition  of  the  successful  aspirant  with 
an  amused  smile. 

"  One  'd  thenk,"  said  Lois,  sagely,  "  a  chicken 


MARGRET   HOWTH.  177 

never  stood  on  a  wall  before,  to  hear  'em,  or  a 
hen  laid  an  egg." 

"Nor  did  Holmes  smile  once  because  the 
chicken  burlesqued  man  :  his  thought  was  too 
single  for  that  yet.  It  was  long,  too,  before  he 
thought  of  the  people  who  came  in  quietly  to 
see  him  as  anything  but  shadows,  or  wished  for 
them  to  come  again.  Lois,  perhaps,  was  the 
most  real  thing  in  life  then  to  him  :  growing 
conscious,  day  by  day,  as  he  watched  her,  of  his 
old  life  over  the  gulf.  Very  slowly  conscious : 
with  a  weak  groping  to  comprehend  the  sudden, 
awful  change  that  had  come  on  him,  and  then 
forgetting  his  old  life,  and  the  change,  and  the 
pity  he  felt  for  himself,  in  the  vague  content  of 
the  fire-lit  room,  and  his  nurse  with  her  intermi 
nable  knitting  through  the  long  afternoons,  while 
the  sky  without  would  thicken  and  gray,  and  a 
few  still  flakes  of  snow  would  come  drifting 
down  to  whiten  the  brown  fields,  —  with  no 
chilly  thought  of  winter,  but  only  to  make  the 
quiet  autumn  more  quiet.  Whatever  honest, 
commonplace  affection  was  in  the  man  came 
out  in  a  simple  way  to  this  Lois,  who  ruled  his 
sick  whims  and  crotchets  in  such  a  quiet,  sturdy 
fashion.  Not  because  she  had  risked  her  life  to 
save  his ;  even  when  he  understood  that,  he  re 
called  it  with  an  uneasy,  heavy  gratitude ;  but 
the  drinks  she  made  him,  and  the  plot  they 


178  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

laid  to  smuggle  in  some  oysters  in  defiance  of 
all  rules,  and  the  cheerful,  pock-marked  face,  he 
never  forgot. 

Doctor  Knowles  came  sometimes,  but  sel 
dom  :  never  talked,  when  he  did  come :  late 
in  the  evening  generally :  and  then  would  punch 
his  skin,  and  look  at  his  tongue,  and  shake  the 
bottles  on  the  mantel-shelf  with  a  grunt  that 
terrified  Lois  into  the  belief  that  the  other  doc 
tor  was  a  quack,  and  her  patient  was  totally 
undone.  He  would  sit,  grum  enough,  with  his 
feet  higher  than  his  head,  chewing  an  unlighted 
cigar,  and  leave  them  both  thankful  when  he 
saw  proper  to  go. 

The  truth  is,  Knowles  was  thoroughly  out 
of  place  in  these  little  mending-shops  called 
sick -chambers,  where  bodies  are  taken  to 
pieces,  and  souls  set  right.  He  had  no  faith 
in  your  slow,  impalpable  cures  :  all  reforms 
were  to  be  accomplished  by  a  wrench,  from 
the  abolition  of  slavery  to  the  pulling  of  a 
tooth. 

He  had  no  especial  sympathy  with  Holmes, 
either :  the  men  were  started  in  life  from  oppo 
site  poles  :  and  with  all  the  real  tenderness  un 
der  his  surly,  rugged  habit,  it  would  have  been 
hard  to  touch  him  with  the  sudden  doom  fallen 
on  this  man,  thrown  crippled  and  penniless 
upon  the  world,  helpless,  it  might  be,  for  life. 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  179 

He  would  have  been  apt  to  tell  you,  savagely, 
that  "  he  wrought  for  it." 

Besides,  it  made  him  out  of  temper  to  meet 
the  sisters.  Knowles  could  have  sketched  for 
you  with  a  fine  decision  of  touch  the  r6Ie  played 
by  the  Papal  power  in  the  progress  of  humanity, 
—  how  far  it  served  as  a  stepping-stone,  and 
the  exact  period  when  it  became  a  wearisome 
clog.  The  world  was  done  with  it  now,  utterly. 
Its  breath  was  only  poisoned,  with  coming 
death.  So  the  homely  live  charity  of  these 
women,  their  work,  which  no  other  hands  were 
ready  to  take,  jarred  against  his  abstract  theory, 
and  irritated  him,  as  an  obstinate  fact  always 
does  run  into  the  hand  of  a  man  who  is  de 
termined  to  clutch  the  very  heart  of  a  matter. 
Truth  will  not  underlie  all  facts,  in  this  muddle 
of  a  world,  in  spite  of  the  Positive  Philosophy, 
you  know. 

Don't  sneer  at  Knowles.  Your  own  clear, 
tolerant  brain,  that  reflects  all  men  and  creeds 
->  ;  alike,  like  colourless  water,  drawing  the  truth 
from  all,  is  very  different,  doubtless,  from  this 
narrow,  solitary  soul,  who  thought  the  world 
waited  for  him  to  fight  down  his  one  evil 
before  it  went  on  its  slow  way.  An  intolerant 
fanatic,  of  course.  But  the  truth  he  did  know 
was  so  terribly  real  to  him,  there  was  such  sick, 
throbbing  pity  in  his  heart  for  men  who  suffered 


180  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

as  he  had  done  !  And  then,  fanatics  must  make 
history  for  conservative  men  to  learn  from,  I 
suppose. 

If  Knowles  shunned  the  hospital,  there  was 
another  place  he  shunned  more,  —  the  place 
where  his  Communist  buildings  were  to  have 
stood.  He  went  out  there  once,  as  one  might 
go  alone  to  bury  his  dead  out  of  his  sight,  the 
day  after  the  mill  was  burnt,  —  looking  first  at 
the  smoking  mass  of  hot  bricks  and  charred 
shingles,  so  as  clearly  to  understand  how  utterly 
dead  his  life-long  scheme  was.  He  stalked 
gravely  around  it,  his  hands  in  his  pockets  ;  the 
hodmen  who  were  raking  out  their  winter's  fire 
wood  from  the  ashes  remarking,  that  "  old 
Knowles  did  n't  seem  a  bit  cut  up  about  it." 
Then  he  went  out  to  the  farm  he  had  meant  to 
buy,  as  I  told  you,  and  looked  at  it  in  the  same 
stolid  way.  It  was  a  dull  day  in  October.  The 
Wabash  crawled  moodily  past  his  feet,  the 
dingy  prairie  stretched  drearily  away  on  the 
other  side,  while  the  heavy -browed  Indiana  hills 
stood  solemnly  looking  down  the  plateau  where 
the  buildings  were  to  have  risen. 

Well,  most  men  have  some  plan  of  life,  into 
which  all  the  strength  and  the  keen,  fine  feeling 
of  their  nature  enter ;  but  generally  they  try  to 
make  it  real  in  early  youth,  and,  balked  then, 
laugh  ever  afterwards  at  their  own  folly.  This 


MARGEET  HOWTH.  181 

poor  old  Knowles  had  begun  to  block  out  his 
dream  when  he  was  a  gaunt,  gray-haired  man 
of  sixty.  I  have  known  men  so  build  their 
heart's  blood,  and  brains  into  their  work,  that, 
when  it  tumbled  down,  their  lives  went  with  it. 
His  fell  that  dull  day  in  October ;  but  if  it  hurt 
him,  no  man  knew  it.  He  sat  there,  looking  at 
the  broad  plateau,  whistling  softly  to  himself,  a 
long  time.  He  had  meant  that  a  great  many 
hearts  should  be  made  better  and  happier  there  ; 

he  had  dreamed God  knows  what  he  had 

dreamed,  of  which  this  reality  was  the  founda 
tion, —  of  how  much  world-freedom,  or  beauty, 
or  kindly  life  this  was  the  heart  or  seed.  It  was 
all  over  now.  All  the  afternoon  the  muddy  sky 
hung  low  over  the  hills  and  dull  prairie,  while 
he  sat  there  looking  at  the  dingy  gloom  :  just 
as  you  and  I  have  done,  perhaps,  some  time, 
thwarted  in  some  true  hope,  —  sore  and  bitter 
against  God,  because  He  did  not  see  how  much 
His  universe  needed  our  pet  reform. 

He  got  up  at  last,  and  without  a  sigh  went 
slowly  away,  leaving  the  courage  and  self-reli 
ance  of  his  life  behind  him,  buried  with  that 
one  beautiful,  fair  dream  of  life.  He  never 
came  back  again.  People  said  Knowles  was 
quieter  since  his  loss  ;  but  I  think  only  God 
saw  the  depth  of  the  difference.  When  he  was 
leaving  the  plateau,  that  day,  he  looked  back  at 


182  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

it,  as  if  to  say  good-bye,  —  not  to  the  dingy 
relds  and  river,  but  to  the  Something  he  had 
'nursed  so  long  in  his  rugged  heart,  and  given 
up  now  forever.  As  he  looked,  the  warm,  red 
sun  came  out,  lighting  up  with  a  heartsome 
warmth  the  whole  gray  day.  Some  blessing 
power  seemed  to  look  at  him  from  this  grave 
yard  of  his  hopes,  from  the  gloomy  hills,  the 
prairie,  and  the  river,  which  he  never  was  to  see 
again.  His  hope  accomplished  could  not  have 
looked  at  him  with  surer  content  and  fulfilment. 
He  turned  away,  ungrateful  and  moody.  Long 
afterwards  he  remembered  the  calm  and  bright 
ness  which  his  hand  had  not  been  raised  to 
make,  and  understood  the  meaning  of  its 
promise. 

He  went  to  work  now  in  earnest :  he  had  to 
work  for  his  bread-and-butter,  you  understand  ? 
Restless,  impatient  at  first ;  but  we  will  forgive 
him  that :  you  yourself  were  not  altogether  sub 
missive,  perhaps,  when  the  slow-built  expecta 
tion  of  life  was  destroyed  by  some  chance,  as 
you  called  it,  no  more  controllable  than  this 
paltry  burning  of  a  mill.  Yet,  now  that  the 
great  hope  was  gone  on  which  his  brain  had 
worked  with  rigid,  fierce  intentness,  now  that 
his  hands  were  powerless  to  redeem  a  perishing 
class,  he  had  time  to  fall  into  careless,  kindly 
habit :  he  thought  it  wasted  time,  remorsefully, 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  183 

of  course.  He  was  seized  with  a  curiosity  to 
know  what  plan  in  living  these  people  had  who 
crossed  his  way  on  the  streets ;  if  they  were 
disappointed,  like  him.  Humbled,  he  hardly 
knew  why:  vague,  uncertain  in  action.  Quit 
dogging  old  Huff  with  his  advice ;  trotted  about 
the  streets  with  a  cowed  look,  that,  if  one  could 
have  seen  into  the  jaded  old  heart  under  his 
snuffy  waistcoat,  would  have  seemed  pitiful 
enough.  He  went  sometimes  to  read  the  pa 
pers  to  old  Tim  Poole,  who  was  bed-ridden,  and 
did  not  pish  or  pshaw  once  at  his  maundering 
about  secession,  or  the  misery  in  his  back.  Went 
to  church  sometimes :  the  sermons  were  bigotry, 
always,  to  his  notion,  sitting  on  a  back  seat, 
squirting  tobacco-juice  about  him  ;  but  the  sim 
ple,  old-fashioned  hymns  brought  the  tears  to 
his  eyes :  —  "  They  sounded  to  him  like  his 
mother's  voice,  singing  in  Paradise : "  he  hoped 
she  could  not  see  how  things  had  gone  on  here, 
—  how  all  that  was  honest  and  strong  in  his  life 
had  fallen  in  that  infernal  mill.  Once  or  twice 
he  went  down  Crane  Alley,  and  lumbered  up 
three  pair  of  stairs  to  the  garret  where  Kitts 
had  his  studio,  —  got  him  orders,  in  fact,  for 
two  portraits ;  and  when  that  pale-eyed  young 
man,  in  a  fit  of  confidence,  one  night,  with  a 
very  red  face  drew  back  the  curtain  from  his 
grand  "  Fall  of  Chapultepec,"  and  watched  him 


184  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

with  a  lean  and  hungry  look,  Knowles,  who 
knew  no  more  about  painting  than  a  gorilla, 
walked  about,  looking  through  his  fist  at  it, 
saying,  "  how  fine  the  chiaroscuro  was,  and  that 
it  was  a  devilish  good  thing  altogether."  "  Well, 
well,"  he  soothed  his  conscience,  going  down 
stairs,  "  maybe  that  bit  of  canvas  is  as  much  to 
that  poor  chap  as  the  Phalanstery  was  once  to 
another  fool."  And  so  went  on  through  the 
gas-lit  streets  into  his  parishes  in  cellars  and 
alleys,  with  a  sorer  heart,  but  cheerfuller  wrords, 
now  that  he  had  nothing  but  words  to  give. 

The  only  place  where  he  hardened  his  heart 
was  in  the  hospital  with  Holmes.  After  he  had 
wakened  to  full  consciousness,  Knowles  thought 
the  man  a  beast  to  sit  there  uncomplaining  day 
after  day,  cold  and  grave,  as  if  the  lifeful  warmth 
of  the  late  autumn  were  enough  for  him.  Did 
he  understand  the  iron  fate  laid  on  him?  Where 
was  the  strength  of  the  self-existent  soul  now  ? 
Did  he  know  that  it  was  a  balked,  defeated  life, 
that  waited  for  him,  vacant  of  the  triumphs  he 
had  planned?  "  The  self-existent  soul!  stopped 
in  its  growth  by  chance,  this  omnipotent  deity, 
—  the  chance  burning  of  a  mill !  "  Knowles  mut 
tered  to  himself,  looking  at  Holmes.  With  a 
dim  flash  of  doubt,  as  he  said  it,  whether  there 
might  not,  after  all,  be  a  Something,  —  some 
deep  of  calm,  of  eternal  order,  where  he  and 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  185 

Holmes,  these  coarse  chances,  these  wrestling 
souls,  these  creeds,  Catholic  or  Humanitarian, 
even  that  namby-pamby  Kitts  and  his  picture, 
might  be  unconsciously  working  out  their  part. 
Looking  out  of  the  hospital- window,  he  saw 
the  deep  of  the  stainless  blue,  impenetrable, 
with  the  stars  unconscious  in  their  silence  of 
the  maddest  raging  of  the  petty  world.  There 
was  such  calm.J'  such  infinite  love  and  justice! 
it  was  around,  above  him  ;  it  held  him,  it  held 
the  world,  —  all  Wrong,  all  Right!  For  an  in 
stant  the  turbid  heart  of  the  man  cowered,  awe 
struck,  as  yours  or  mine  has  done  when  some 
swift  touch  of  music  or  human  love  gave  us  a 
cleaving  glimpse  of  the  great  I  AM.  The  next, 
he  opened  the  newspaper  in  his  hand.  What 
part  in  the  eternal  order  could  tltat  hold  ?  or 
slavery,  or  secession,  or  civil  war?  No  har 
mony  could  be  infinite  enough  to  hold  such 
discords,  he  thought,  pushing  the  whole  matter 
from  him  in  despair.  Why,  the  experiment  of 
self-government,  the  problem  of  the  ages,  was 
crumbling  in  ruin!  So  he  despaired,  just  as 
Tige  did  the  night  the  mill  fell  about  his  ears, 
in  full  confidence  that  the  world  had  come  to  an 
end  now,  without  hope  of  salvation,  —  crawling 
out  of  his  cellar  in  dumb  amazement,  when  the 
sun  rose  as  usual  the  next  morning. 

Knowles  sat,  peering  at  Holmes  over  his  pa- 


186  MARGRET   HOWTH. 

per,  watching  the  languid  breath  that  showed 
how  deep  the  hurt  had  been,  the  maimed  body, 
the  face  outwardly  cool,  watchful,  reticent  as 
before.  He  fancied  the  slough  of  disappoint 
ment  into  which  God  had  crushed  the  soul  of 
this  man  :  would  he  struggle  out  ?  Would  he 
take  Miss  Herne  as  the  first  step  in  his  stair-way, 
or  be  content  to  be  flung  down  in  vigorous 
manhood  to  the  depth  of  impotent  poverty  ? 
He  could  not  tell  if  the  quiet  on  Holmes's  face 
were  stolid  defiance  or  submission:  the  dumb 
kings  might  have  looked  thus  beneath  the  feet 
of  Pharaoh.  When  he  walked  over  the  floor, 
too,  weak  as  he  was  it  was  with  the  old  iron 
tread.  He  asked  Knowles  presently  what  busi 
ness  he  had  gone  into. 

"  My  old  hobby  in  an  humble  way,  —  the 
House  of  Refuge." 

They  both  laughed. 

"  Yes,  it  is  true.  The  janitor  points  me  out 
to  visitors  as  '  under-superintendent,  a  philan 
thropist  in  decayed  circumstances.'  Perhaps 
it  is  my  life-work,"  —  growing  sad  and  ear 
nest. 

"  If  you  can  inoculate  these  infant  beggars 
and  thieves  with  your  theory,  it  will  be  practice 
when  you  are  dead." 

"  I  think  that,"  said  Knowles,  gravely,  his  eye 
kindling,  —  "  I  think  that." 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  187 

"  As  thankless  a  task  as  that  of  Moses,"  said 
the  other,  watching  him  curiously.  "  For  you 
will  not  see  the  pleasant  land,  —  you  will  not  go 
over." 

The  old  man's  flabby  face  darkened. 

"  I  know,"  he  said. 

He  glanced  involuntarily  out  at  the  blue,  and 
the  clear-shining,  eternal  stars. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  after  a  while,  cheerfully, 
"  I  must  content  myself  with  Lois's  creed,  here, 
— '  It  '11  come  right  some  time.'  " 

Lois  looked  up  from  the  saucepan  she  was 
stirring,  her  face  growing  quite  red,  nodding  em 
phatically  some  half-dozen  times. 

"After  all,"  said  Holmes,  kindly,  "this  chance 
may  have  forced  you  on  the  true  road  to  success 
for  your  new  system  of  Sociology.  Only  un 
tainted  natures  could  be  fitted  for  self-govern 
ment.  Do  you  find  the  fallow  field  easily 
worked  ?  " 

Knovvles  fidgeted  uneasily. 

"  No.  Fact  is,  I  'm  beginning  to  think  there 
's  a  good  deal  of  an  obstacle  in  blood.  I  find 
difficulty,  much  difficulty,  Sir,  in  giving  to  the 
youngest  child  true  ideas  of  absolute  freedom, 
and  unselfish  heroism." 

"  You  teach  them  these  by  reason  alone  ? " 
said  Holmes,  gravely. 

"  Well,  —  of  course,  —  that  is  the  true  theory  ; 


188  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

reason  is  the  only  yoke  that  should  be  laid  upon 
a  free-born  soul ;  but  I  —  I  find  it  necessary  to 
have  them  whipped,  Mr.  Holme*." 

Holmes  stooped  suddenly  to  pat  Tiger,  hiding 
a  furtive  smile.  The  old  man  went  on,  anx 
iously,  — 

"  Old  Mr.  Howth  says  that  is  the  end  of  all 
self-governments  :  from  anarchy  to  despotism,  he 
says.  Brute  force  must  come  in.  Old  people 
are  apt  to  be  set  in  their  ways,  you  know.  Hon 
estly,  we  do  not  find  unlimited  freedom  answer 
in  the  House.  I  hope  much  from  a  woman's 
assistance:  I  have  destined  her  for  this  work 
always:  she  has  great  latent  power  of  sympa 
thy  and  endurance,  such  as  can  bring  the  Chris 
tian  teaching  home  to  these  wretches." 

"  The  Christian  ?  "  said  Holmes. 

"  Well,  yes.  I  am  not  a  believer  myself,  you 
know;  but  I  find  that  it  takes  hold  of  these 
people  more  vitally  than  more  abstract  faiths :  I 
suppose  because  of  the  humanity  of  Jesus.  In 
Utopia,  of  course,  we  shall  live  from  scientific 
principles  ;  but  they  do  not  answer  in  the 
House." 

"  Who  is  the  woman  ?  "  asked  Holmes,  care 
lessly. 

The  other  watched  him  keenly. 

"  She  is  coming  for  five  years.  Margret 
Howth." 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  189 

He  patted  the  dog  with  the  same  hard,  un 
moved  touch. 

"  It  is  a  religious  duty  with  her.  Besides,  she 
must  do  something.  They  have  been  almost 
starving  since  the  mill  was  burnt." 

Holmes's  face  was  bent ;  he  could  not  see  it. 
When  he  ktoked  up,  Knowles  thought  it  more 
rigid,  immovable  than  before. 

When  Knowles  was  going  away,  Holmes  said 
to  him,  — 

u  When  does  Margret  Howth  go  into  that 
devils'  den?" 

"  The  House  ?  On  New- Year's."  The  scorn 
in  him  was  too  savage  to  be  silent.  "  It  is  the 
best  time  to  begin  a  new  life.  Yourself,  now, 
you  will  have  fulfilled  your  design  by  that  time, 
—  of  marriage  ?  " 

Holmes  was  leaning  on  the  mantel-shelf; 
his  very  lips  were  pale. 

"  Yes,  I  shall,  I  shall,"  —  in  his  low,  hard  tone. 

Some  sudden  dream  of  warmth  and  beauty 
flashed  before  his  gray  eyes,  lighting  them  as 
Knowles  never  had  seen  before. 

"  Miss  Herne  is  beautiful,  —  let  me  congrat 
ulate  you,  in  Western  fashion." 

The  old  man  did  not  hide  his  sneer. 

Holmes  bowed. 

"  I  thank  you,  for  her." 

Lois  held  the  candle  to  light  the  Doctor  out 
of  the  long  passages. 


\ 


190  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

"  Yoh  hev  n't  seen  Barney  out 't  Mr.  Howth's, 
Doctor  ?  He  's  ther'  now." 

"  No.  When  shall  you  have  done  waiting 
on  this  —  man,  Lois  ?  God  help  you,  child !  " 

Lois's  quick  instinct  answered,  — 

"  He  's  very  kind.  He  's  like  a  woman  fur 
kindness  to  such  as  me.  When  Income  to  die, 
I  'd  like  eyes  such  as  his  to  look  at,  tender, 
pitiful." 

"  Women  are  fools  alike,"  grumbled  the  Doc 
tor.  "  Never  mind.  *  When  you  come  to  die  ? ' 
What  put  that  into  your  head  ?  Look  up." 

The  child  sheltered  the  flaring  candle  with 
her  hand. 

"  I  've  no  tho't  o*  dyin',"  she  said,  laughing. 

There  was  a  gray  shadow  about  her  eyes, 
a  peaked  look  to  the  face,  he  never  saw  before, 
looking  at  her  now  with  a  physician's  eyes. 

"  Does  anything  hurt  you  here  ? "  touching 
her  chest. 

"  It 's  better  now.  It  was  that  night  o'  th' 
fire.  Th'  breath  o'  th'  mill,  I  thenk,  —  but  it  's 
nothin'." 

"  Burning  copperas  ?  Of  course  it 's  better 
Oh,  that 's  nothing !  "  he  said,  cheerfully. 

When  they  reached  the  door,  he  held  out  his 
hand,  the  first  time  he  ever  had  done  it  to  her, 
and  then  waited,  patting  her  on  the  head. 

"  I  think  it  '11  come  right,  Lois,"  he  said, 
dreamily,  looking  out  into  the  night.  "  You  're 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  191 

a  good  girl.  I  think  it  '11  all  come  right.  For 
you  and  me.  Some  time.  Good-night,  child." 
After  he  was  a  long  way  down  the  street,  he 
turned  to  nod  good-night  again  to  the  comical 
little  figure  in  the  door-way. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IF  Knowles  hated  anybody  that  night,  he 
hated  the  man  he  had  left  standing  there  with 
pale,  heavy  jaws,  and  heart  of  iron ;  he  could 
have  cursed  him,  standing  there.  He  did  not 
see  how,  after  he  was  left  alone,  the  man  lay 
with  his  face  to  the  wall,  holding  his  bony 
hand  to  his  forehead,  with  a  look  in  his  eyes 
that  if  you  had  seen,  you  would  have  thought 
his  soul  had  entered  on  that  path  whose  steps 
take  hold  on  hell. 

There  was  no  struggle  in  his  face ;  whatever 
was  the  resolve  he  had  reached  in  the  solitary 
hours  when  he  had  stood  so  close  upon  the 
borders  of  death,  it  was  unshaken  now ;  but 
the  heart,  crushed  and  stifled  before,  was  tak 
ing  its  dire  revenge.  If  ever  it  had  hungered, 
through  the  cold,  selfish  days,  for  God's  help, 
or  a  woman's  love,  it  hungered  now,  with  a 
craving  like  death.  If  ever  he  had  thought 
how  bare  and  vacant  the  years  would  be,  going 
down  to  the  grave  with  lips  that  never  had 
known  a  true  wife's  kiss,  he  remembered  it 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  193 

now,  when  it  was  too  late,  with  bitterness  such 
as  wrings  a  man's  heart  but  once  in  a  lifetime. 
If  ever  he  had  denied  to  his  own  soul  this  Mar- 
gret,  called  her  alien   or  foreign,  it  called  her 
now,  when  it  was  too  late,  to  her  rightful  place ; 
there  was  not  a  thought  nor  a  hope  in  the  dark 
est  depths  of  his  nature  that  did  not  cry  out  for 
her  help  that  night,  —  for  her,  a  part  of  himself, 
—  now,  when  it  was  too  late.     He  went  over 
all  the  years  gone,   and  pictured   the  years  to 
come  ;  he  remembered  the  money  that  was  to 
help  his  divine  soul  upward;  he  thought  of  it 
with  a  curse,  getting  up  and   pacing  the  floor 
of  the  narrow  room,  slowly  and  quietly.     Look 
ing  out  into  the  still  starlight  and  the  quaint 
garden,  he  tried   to   fancy  this  woman    as   he 
knew  her,  after  the  restless  power  of  her  soul 
should    have   been   chilled   and   starved  into   a 
narrow,  lifeless  duty.     He  fancied  her  old,  and 
stern,  and  sick  of  life,  she  that  might  have  been 

what  might  they  not  have  been,  together  ? 

And  he  had  driven  her  to   this  for  money, — 
money  ! 

It  was  of  no  use  to  repent  of  it  now.  He 
had  frozen  the  love  out  of  her  heart,  long  ago. 
He  remembered  (all  that  he  did  remember  of 
the  blank  night  after  he  was  hurt)  that  he  had 
seen  her  white,  worn-out  face  looking  down  at 
him ;  that  she  did  not  touch  him ;  and  that, 


194  MARGRET   HOWTH. 

when  one  of  the  sisters  told  her  she  might  take 
her  place,  and  sponge  his  forehead,  she  said, 
bitterly,  she  had  no  right  to  do  it,  that  he  was 
no  friend  of  hers.  He  saw  and  heard  that,  un 
conscious  to  all  else ;  he  would  have  known  it, 
if  he  had  been  dead,  lying  there.  It  was  too 
late  now :  why  need  he  think  of  what  might 
have  been  ?  Yet  he  did  think  of  it  through  the 
long  winter's  night,  —  each  moment  his  thought 
of  the  life  to  come,  or  of  her,  growing  more  ten 
der  and  more  bitter.  Do  you  wonder  at  the 
remorse  of  this  man  ?  Wait,  then,  until  you 
lie  alone,  as  he  had  done,  through  days  as  slow, 
revealing  as  ages,  face  to  face  with  God  and 
death.  Wait  until  you  go  down  so  close  to 
eternity  that  the  life  you  have  lived  stands  out 
before  you  in  the  dreadful  bareness  in  which 
God  sees  it,  —  as  you  shall  see  it  some  day 
from  heaven  or  hell :  money,  and  hate,  and 
love  will  stand  in  their  true  light  then.  Yet, 
coming  back  to  life  again,  he  held  whatever 
resolve  he  had  reached  down  there  with  his  old 
iron  will :  all  the  pain  he  bore  in  looking  back 
to  the  false  life  before,  or  the  ceaseless  remem 
brance  that  it  was  too  late  now  to  atone  for 
that  false  life,  made  him  the  stronger  to  abide 
by  that  resolve,  to  go  on  the  path  self-chosen, 
let  the  end  be  what  it  might.  Whatever  the 
resolve  was,  it  did  not  still  the  gnawing  hun- 


MARGRET   HOWTH.  195 

ger  in  his  heart  that  night,  which   every  trifle 
made   more  fresh  and  strong. 

There  was  a  wicker-basket  that  Lois  had  left 
by  the  fire,  piled  up  with  bits  of  cloth  and 
leather  oat  of  which  she  was  manufacturing 
Christmas  gifts ;  a  pair  of  great  woollen  socks, 
which  one  of  the  sisters  had  told  him  privately 
Lois  meant  for  him,  lying  on  top.  As  with  all 
of  her  people,  Christmas  was  the  great  day  of 
the  year  to  her.  Holmes  could  not  but  smile, 
looking  at  them.  Poor  Lois !  —  Christmas 
would  be  here  soon,  then  ?  And  sitting  by 
the  covered  fire,  he  went  back  to  Christrnases 
gone,  the  thought  of  all  others  that  brought 
Margret  nearest  and  warmest  to  him :  since 
he  was  a  boy  they  had  been  together  on  that 
day.  With  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  he  sat  quiet 
by  the  fire  until  morning.  He  heard  some  boy 
going  by  in  the  gray  dawn  call  to  another  that 
they  would  have  holiday  on  Christmas  week. 
It  was  coming,  he  thought,  rousing  himself, — 
but  never  as  it  had  been  :  that  could  never  be 
again.  Yet  it  was  strange  how  this  thought 
of  Christmas  took  hold  of  him,  after  this, — 
famished  his  heart.  As  it  approached  in  the 
slow-coming  winter,  the  days  growing  shorter, 
and  the  nights  longer  and  more  solitary,  so 
Margret  became  more  real  to  him, —  not  re 
jected  and  lost,  but  as  the  wife  she  might  have 


196  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

been,  with  the  simple,  passionate  love  she  gave 
him  once.  The  thought  grew  intolerable  to 
him  ;  yet  there  was  not  a  homely  pleasure  of 
those  years  gone,  when  the  old  school-master 
kept  high  holiday  on  Christmas,  that  he  did 
not  recall  and  linger  over  with  a  boyish  yearn 
ing,  now  that  these  things  were  over  forever. 
He  chafed  under  his  weakness.  If  the  day 
would  but  come  when  he  could  go  out  and 
conquer  his  fate,  as  a  man  ought  to  do !  On 
Christmas  eve  he  would  put  an  end  to  these 
torturing  taunts,  be  done  with  them,  let  the  sac 
rifice  be  what  it  might.  For  I  fear  that  even 
now  Stephen  Holmes  thought  of  his  own  need 
and  his  own  hunger. 

He  watched  Lois  knitting  and  patching  her 
poor  little  gifts,  with  a  vague  feeling  that  every 
stitch  made  the  time  a  moment  shorter  until 
he  should  be  free,  with  his  life  in  his  hand 
again.  She  left  the  hospital  at  last,  sorrow 
fully  enough,  but  he  made  her  go  :  he  fancied 
the  close  air  was  hurting  her,  seeing  at  night 
the  strange  shadow  growing  on  her  face.  I 
do  not  think  he  ever  said  to  her  that  he  knew 
all  she  had  done  for  him,  or  thanked  her ;  but 
no  dog  or  woman  that  Stephen  Holmes  loved 
could  look  into  his  eyes,  and  doubt  that  love. 
Sad,  masterful  eyes,  such  as  are  seen  but  once 
or  twice  in  a  lifetime  :  no  woman  but  would 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  197 

wish,  like  Lois,  for  such  eyes  to  be  near  her 
when  she  came  to  die,  for  her  to  remember  the 
world's  love  in.  She  came  hobbling  back  every 
day  to  see  him  after  she  had  gone,  and  would 
stay  to  make  his  soup,  telling  him,  child-like, 
how  many  days  it  was  until  Christmas.  He 
knew  that,  as  well  as  she,  waiting  through  the 
cold,  slow  hours,  in  his  solitary  room.  He 
thought  sometimes  she  had  some  eager  peti 
tion  to  offer  him,  when  she  stood  watching 
him  wistfully,  twisting  her  hands  together ;  but 
she  always  smothered  it  with  a  sigh,  and,  tying 
her  little  woollen  cap,  went  away,  walking  more 
slowly,  he  thought,  every  day. 

Do  you  remember  how  Christmas  came  that 
year  ?  how  there  was  a  waiting  pause,  when 
the  States  stood  still,  and  from  the  peoples 
came  the  first  awful  murmurs  of  the  storm  that 
was  to  shake  the  earth  ?  how  men's  hearts 
failed  them  for  fear,  how  women  turned  pale, 
and  held  their  children  closer  to  their  breasts, 
while -they  heard  a  far  cry  of  lamentation  for 
their  country  that  had  fallen  ?  Do  you  remem 
ber  how,  amidst  the  fury  of  men's  anger,  the 
storehouses  of  God  were  opened  for  that  land  ? 
how  the  very  sunshine  gathered  new  splendours, 
the  rains  more  fruitful  moisture,  until  the  earth 
poured  forth  an  unknown  fulness  of  life  and 
beauty  ?  Was  there  no  promise  there,  no  proph- 


198  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

ecy  ?  Do  you  remember,  while  the  very  life  of 
the  people  hung  in  doubt  before  them,  while  the 
angel  of  death  came  again  to  pass  over  the 
land,  and  there  was  no  blood  on  any  door-post 
to  keep  hinp  from  that  house,  how  serenely  the 
old  earth  folded  in  her  harvest,  dead,  till  it 
should  waken  to  a  stronger  life  ?  how  quietly, 
as  the  time  came  near  for  the  birth  of  Christ, 
this  old  earth  made  ready  for  his  coming,  heed 
less  of  the  clamour  of  men  ?  how  the  air  grew 
fresher  above,  day  by  day,  and  the  gray  deep 
silently  opened  for  the  snow  to  go  down  and 
screen  and  whiten  and  make  holy  that  fouled 
earth  ?  I  think  the  slow-falling  snow  did  not 
fail  in  its  quiet  warning ;  for  I  remember  that 
men,  too,  in  a  feeble  way  tried  to  make  ready 
for  the  birth  of  Christ.  There  was  a  healthier 
glow  than  terror  stirred  in  their  hearts  ;  because 
of  the  vague,  great  dread  without,  it  may  be, 
they  drew  closer  together  round  household  fires, 
were  kindlier  in  the  good  old-fashioned  way; 
old  friendships  were  wakened,  old  times  talked 
over,  fathers  and  mothers  and  children  planned 
homely  ways  to  show  the  love  in  their  hearts 
and  to  welcome  in  Christmas.  Who  knew  but 
it  might  be  the  last  ?  Let  us  be  thankful  for 
that  happy  Christmas-day.  What  if  it  were 
the  last  ?  What  if,  when  another  comes,  and 
another,  one  voice,  the  kindest  and  cheerfullest 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  199 

then,  shall  never  say  "  Happy  Christmas  "  to  us 
again  ?  Let  us  be  thankful  for  that  day  the 
more,  —  accept  it  the  more  as  a  sign  of  that 
which  will  surely  come. 

Holmes,  even,  in  his  dreary  room  and  drearier 
thought,  felt  the  warmth  and  expectant  stir 
creeping  through  the  land  as  the  day  drew  near. 
Even  in  the  hospital,  the  sisters  were  in  a  busy 
flutter,  decking  their  little  chapel  with  flowers, 
and  preparing  a  fete  for  their  patients.  The 
doctor,  as  he  bandaged  his  broken  arm,  hinted 
at  faint  rumours  in  the  city  of  masquerades  and 
concerts.  Even  Knowles,  who  had  not  visited 
the  hospital  for  weeks,  relented  and  came  back, 
moody  and  grum.  He  brought  Kitts  with  him, 
and  started  him  on  talking  of  how  they  kept 
Christmas  in  Ohio  on  his  mother's  farm ;  and 
the  poor  soul,  encouraged  by  the  silence  of  two 
of  his  auditors,  and  the  intense  interest  of  Lois 
in  the  background,  mazed  on  about  Santa- 
Claus  trees  and  Virginia  reels  until  the  clock 
struck  twelve,  and  Knowles  began  to  snore. 

Christmas  was  coming.  As  he  stood,  day 
after  day,  looking  out  of  the  gray  window,  he 
could  see  the  signs  of  its  coming  even  in  the 
shop-windows  glittering  with  miraculous  toys, 
in  the  market-carts  with  their  red-faced  drivers 
and  heaps  of  ducks  and  turkeys,  in  every  stage 
coach  or  omnibus  that  went  by  crowded  with 

9* 


200  MARGRET    HOWTH. 

boys  home  for  the  holidays,  hallooing  for  Bell 
or  Lincoln,  forgetful  that  the  election  was  over, 
and  Carolina  out. 

Pike  came  to  see  him  one  day,  his  arms  full 
of  a  bundle,  which  turned  out  to  be  an  accor 
dion  for  Sophy. 

"  Christmas,  you  know,"  he  said,  taking  off 
the  brown  paper,  while  he  was  cursing  the  Cot 
ton  States  the  hardest,  and  gravely  kneading  at 
the  keys,  and  stretching  it  until  he  made  as 
much  discord  as  five  Congressmen.  "  I  think 
Sophy  will  like  that,"  he  said,  looking  at  it  side 
ways,  and  tying  it  up  carefully. 

"  I  am  sure  she  will,"  said  Holmes,  —  and 
did  not  think  the  man  a  fool  for  one  moment. 

Always  going  back,  this  Holmes,  when  he 
was  alone,  to  the  certainty  that  home-comings 
or  children's  kisses  or  Christmas  feasts  were 
not  for  such  as  he,  —  never  could  be,  though  he 
sought  for  the  old  time  in  bitterness  of  heart ; 
and  so,  dully  remembering  his  resolve,  and  wait 
ing  for  Christmas  eve,  when  he  might  end  it  all. 
Not  one  of  the  myriads  of  happy  children  lis 
tened  more  intently  to  the  clock  clanging  off 
hour  after  hour  than  the  silent,  stern  man  who 
had  no  hope  in  that  day  that  was  coming. 

He  learned  to  watch  even  for  poor  Lois  com 
ing  up  the  corridor  every  day,  —  being  the  only 
tie  that  bound  the  solitary  man  to  the  inner 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  201 

world  of  love  and  warmth.  The  deformed  little 
body  was  quite  alive  with  Christmas  now,  and 
brought  its  glow  with  her,  in  her  weak  way. 
Different  from  the  others,  he  saw  with  a  curious 
interest.  The  day  was  more  real  to  her  than  to 
them.  Not  because,  only,  the  care  she  had  of 
everybody,  and  everybody  had  of  her  seemed  to 
reach  its  culmination  of  kindly  thought  for  the 
Christmas  time  ;  not  because,  as  she  sat  talk 
ing  slowly,  stopping  for  breath,  her  great  fear 
seemed  to  be  that  she  would  not  have  gifts 
enough  to  go  round;  but  deeper  than  that, — 
the  day  was  reaj  to  her.  As  if  it  were  actually 
true  that  the  Master  in  whom  she  believed  was 
freshly  born  into  the  world  once  a  year,  to 
waken  all  that  was  genial  and  noble  and  pure 
in  the  turbid,  worn-out  hearts  ;  as  if  new  hon 
our  and  pride  and  love  did  flash  into  the  realms 
below  heaven  with  the  breaking  of  Christmas 
morn.  It  was  a  beautiful  faith  ;  he  almost 
wished  it  were  his.  A  beautiful  faith !  it  gave 
a  meaning  to  the  old  custom  of  gifts  and  kind 
words.  Love  coming  into  the  world  !  —  the 
/  idea  pleased  his  artistic  taste,  being  simple  and 
sublime.  Lois  used  to  tell  him,  while  she  feebly 
tried  to  set  his  room  in  order,  of  all  her  plans, — 
of  how  Sam  Polston  was  to  be  married  on 
New- Year's,  —  but  most  of  all  of  the  Christmas 
coming  out  at  the  old  school-master's  :  how  the 


202  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

old  house  had  been  scrubbed  from  top  to  bot 
tom,  was  fairly  glowing  with  shining  paint  and 
hot  fires,  —  how  Margret  and  her  mother 
worked,  in  terror  lest  the  old  man  should  find 
out  how  poor  and  bare  it  was,  —  how  he  and 
Joel  had  some  secret  enterprise  on  foot  at  the 
far  end  of  the  plantation  out  in  the  swamp, 
and  were  gone  nearly  all  day. 

She  ceased  coming  at  last.  One  of  the  sis 
ters  went  out  to  see  her,  and  told  him  she  was 
too  weak  to  walk,  but  meant  to  be  better  soon, 
—  quite  well  by  the  holidays.  He  wished  the 
poor  thing  had  told  him  what  she  wanted  of 
him.  —  wished  it  anxiously,  with  a  dull  presen 
timent  of  evil. 

The  days  went  by,  cold  and  slow.  He 
watched  grimly  the  preparations  the  hospital 
physician  was  silently  making  in  his  case,  for 
fever,  inflammation. 

"  I  must  be  strong  enough  to  go  out  cured 
on  Christmas  eve,"  he  said  to  him  one  day, 
coolly. 

The  old  doctor  glanced  up  shrewdly.  He 
wa^  an  old  Alsatian,  very  plain-spoken. 

«  You  say  so  ?  "  he  mumbled.  "  Chut !  Then 
you  will  go.  There  are  some  —  bull-dog  men. 
They  do  what  they  please,  —  they  never  die  un 
less  they  choose,  begar  !  We  know  them  in  our 
practice,  Herr  Holmes  !  " 


MARGRET    HOWTH.  203 

Holmes  laughed.  Some  acumen  there,  he 
thought,  in  medicine  or  mind  :  as  for  himself, 
it  was.  true  enough  ;  whatever  success  he  had 
gained  in  life  had  been  by  no  flush  of  enthu 
siasm  or  hope  ;  a  dogged  persistence  of  "  hold 
ing  on,"  rather. 

A  long  time ;  but  Christmas  eve  came  at 
last:  bright,  still,  frosty.  "Whatever  he  had 
to  do,  let  it  be  done  quickly ; "  but  not  till  the 
set  hour  came.  So  he  laid  his  watch  on  the 
table  beside  him,  waiting  until  it  should  mark 
the  time  he  had  chosen :  the  ruling  passion  of 
self-control  as  strong  in  this  turn  of  life's  tide 
as  it  would  be  in  its  ebb,  at  the  last.  The  old 
doctor  found  him  alone  in  the  dreary  room, 
coming  in  with  the  frosty  breath  of  the  eager 
street  about  him.  A  grim,  chilling  sight  enough, 
as  solitary  and  impenetrable  as  the  Sphinx.  He 
did  not  like  such  faces  in  this  genial  and  gra 
cious  time,  so  hurried  over  his  examination. 
The  eye  was  cool,  the  pulse  steady,  the  man's 
body,  battered  though  it  was,  strong  in  its 
steely  composure.  "  Ja  wohl  !  — ja  wohl !  " 
he  went  on  chuffily,  summing  up  :  latent  fever, 
—  the  very  lips  were  blue,  dry  as  husks ;  "  he 
would  go,  —  oui  ?  —  then  go !  " — with  a  chuckle. 
"  All  right,  gluck  zu  !  "  And  so  shuffled  out. 
Latent  fever  ?  Doubtless,  yet  hardly  from  bro 
ken  bones,  the  doctor  thought,  —  with  no  sus- 


204  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

picion  of  the  subtile,  intolerable  passion  smoul 
dering  in  every  drop  of  this  man's  phlegmatic 
blood. 

Evening  came  at  last.  He  stopped  until  the 
cracked  bell  of  the  chapel  had  done  striking 
the  Angelus,  and  then  put  on  his  overcoat,  and 
went  out.  Passing  down  the  garden  walk  a 
miserable  chicken  staggered  up  to  him,  chirp 
ing  a  drunken  recognition.  For  a  moment,  he 
breathed  again  the  hot  smoke  of  the  mill,  re 
membering  how  Lois  had  found  him  in  Mar- 
gret's  office,  not  forgetting  the  cage  :  chary  of 
this  low  life,  even  in  the  peril  of  his  own.  So, 
going  out  on  the  street,  he  tested  his  own  na 
ture  by  this  trifle  in  his  old  fashion.  "  The  rul 
ing  passion  strong  in  death,"  eh  ?  It  had  not 
been  self-love ;  something  deeper :  an  instinct 
rather  than  reason.  Was  he  glad  to  think  this 
of  himself?  He  looked  out  more  watchful  of  the 
face  which  the  coming  Christmas  bore.  The 
air  was  cold  and  pungent.  The  crowded  city 
seemed  wakening  to  some  keen  enjoyment ; 
even  his  own  weak,  deliberate  step  rang  on  the 
icy  pavement  as  if  it  wished  to  rejoice  with  the 
rest.  I  said  it  was  a  trading  city  :  so  it  was, 
but  the  very  trade  to-day  had  a  jolly  Christmas 
face  on ;  the  surly  old  banks  and  pawnbrokers' 
shops  had  grown  ashamed  of  their  doings,  and 
shut  their  doors,  and  covered  their  windows 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  205 

with  frosty  trees,  and  cathedrals,  and  castles  ; 
the  shops  opened  their  inmost  hearts ;  some 
child's  angel  had  touched  them,  and  they  flushed 
out  into  a  magic  splendour  of  Christmas  trees, 
and  lights,  and  toys  ;  Santa  Glaus  might  have 
made  his  head-quarters  in  any  one  of  them.  As 
for  children,  you  stumbled  over  them  at  every 
step,  quite  weighed  down  with  the  heaviness 
of  their  joy,  and  the  money  burning  their  pock 
ets  ;  the  acrid  old  brokers  and  pettifoggers,  that 
you  met  with  a  chill  on  other  days,  had  turned 
into  jolly  fathers  of  families,  and  lounged  laugh 
ing  along  with  half  a  dozen  little  hands  pull 
ing  them  into  candy-stores  or  toy-shops  ;  all  of 
the  churches  whose  rules  permitted  them  to 
show  their  deep  rejoicing  in  a  simple  way,  had 
covered  their  cold  stone  walls  with  evergreens, 
and  wreaths  of  glowing  fire-berries  :  the  child's 
angel  had  touched  them  too,  perhaps,  —  not 
unwisely. 

He  passed  crowds  of  thin-clad  women  look 
ing  in  through  open  doors,  with  red  cheeks  and 
hungry  eyes,  at  red-hot  stoves  within,  and  a  pla 
card,  "  Christmas  dinners  for  the  poor,  gratis  ;  " 
out  of  every  window  on  the  streets  came  a 
ruddy  light,  and  a  spicy  smell ;  the  very  sun 
set  sky  had  caught  the  reflection  of  the  count 
less  Christmas  fires,  and  flamed  up  to  the  ze 
nith,  blood-red  as  cinnabar. 


206  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

Holmes  turned  down  one  of  the  back  streets : 
he  was  going  to  see  Lois,  first  of  all.  I  hardly 
know  why :  the  child's  angel  may  have  touched 
him,  too ;  or  his  heart,  full  of  a  yearning  pity  for 
the  poor  cripple,  who,  he  believed  now,  had  given 
her  own  life  for  his,  may  have  plead  for  indul 
gence,  as  men  remember  their  childish  prayers, 
before  going  into  battle.  He  came  at  last,  in  the 
quiet  lane  where  she  lived,  to  her  little  brown 
frame-shanty,  to  which  you  mounted  by  a  flight 
of  wooden  steps  :  there  were  two  narrow  win 
dows  at  the  top,  hung  with  red  curtains ;  he 
could  hear  her  feeble  voice  singing  within.  As 
he  turned  to  go  up  the  steps,  he  caught  sight 
of  something  crouched  underneath  them  in  the 
dark,  hiding  from  him  :  whether  a  man  or  a 
dog  he  could  not  see.  He  touched  it. 

"What  d>  ye  want,  Mas'r?"  said  a  stifled 
voice. 

He  touched  it  again  with  his  stick.  The 
man  stood  upright,  back  in  the  shadow :  it 
was  old  Yare. 

"  Had  ye  any  word  wi'  me,  Mas'r  ?  " 

He  saw  the  negro's  face  grow  gray  with  fear. 

"  Come  out,  Yare,"  he  said,  quietly.  "  Any 
word  ?  What  word  is  arson,  eh  ?  " 

The  man  did  not  move.  Holmes  touched 
him  with  the  stick. 

"  Come  out,"  he  said. 


MARGRET   HOWTH.  207 

He  came  out,  looking  gaunt,  as  with  famine. 

"  I  '11  not  fluiT  myself,"  he  said,  crunching 
his  ragged  hat  in  his  hands,  —  "  I  '11  not." 

He  drove  the  hat  down  upon  his  head,  and 
looked  up  with  a  sullen  fierceness. 

"  Yoh  've  got  me,  an'  I  'm  glad  of  't.  I  'n 
tired,  fearin'.  I  was  born  for  hangin',  the; 
say,"  with  a  laugh.  "  But  I  '11  see  my  girl. 
I've  waited  hyur,  runnin'  the  resk,  —  not  dar- 
in'  to  see  her,  on  'count  o'  yoh.  I  thort  I  was 
safe  on  Christmas-day,  —  but  what  's  Christmas 
to  yoh  or  me  ?  " 

Holrnes's  quiet  motion  drove  him  up  the 
steps  before  him.  He  stopped  at  the  top,  his 
cowardly  nature  getting  the  better  of  him,  and 
sat  down  whining  on  the  upper  step. 

"  Be  marciful,  Mas'r !  I  wanted  to  see  my 
girl,  — that's  all.  She's  all  I  hev." 

Holmes  passed  him  and  went  in.  Was 
Christmas  nothing  to  him  ?  How  did  this 
foul  wretch  know  that  they  stood  alone,  apart 
from  the  world  ? 

It  was  a  low,  cheerful  little  room  that  he 
came  into,  stooping  his  tall  head  :  a  tea-kettle 
humming  and  singing  on  the  wood-fire,  that 
lighted  up  the  coarse  carpet  and  the  gray 
walls,  but  spent  its  warmest  heat  on  the  low 
settee  where  Lois  lay  sewing,  and  singing  to 
herself.  She  was  wrapped  up  in  a  shawl,  but 


208  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

the  hands,  he  saw,  were  worn  to  skin  and 
bone ;  the  gray  shadow  was  heavier  on  her 
face,  and  the  brooding  brown  eyes  were  like 
a  tired  child's.  She  tried  to  jump  up  when 
she  saw  him,  and  not  being  able,  leaned  on 
one  elbow,  half-crying  as  she  laughed. 

"It's' the  best  Christmas  gift  of  all!  lean 
hardly  b'lieve  it !  "  —  touching  the  strong  hand 
humbly  that  was  held  out  to  her. 

Holmes  had  a  gentle  touch,  I  told  you,  for 
dogs  and  children  and  women  :  so,  sitting  qui 
etly  by  her,  he  listened  for  a  long  time  with 
untiring  patience  to  her  long  story  ;  looked  at 
the  heap  of  worthless  trifles  she  had  patched 
up  for  gifts,  wondering  secretly  at  the  delicate 
sense  of  colour  and  grace  betrayed  in  the  bits 
of  flannel  and  leather  ;  and  took,  with  a  grave 
look  of  wonder,  his  own  package,  out  of  which 
a  bit  of  woollen  thread  peeped  forth. 

"  Don't  look  till  to-morrow  mornin',"  she  said, 
anxiously,  as  she  lay  back  trembling  and  ex 
hausted. 

The  breath  of  the  mill!  The  fires  of  the 
world's  want  and  crime  had  finished  their  work 
on  her  life,  —  so  !  She  caught  the  meaning  of 
his  face  quickly. 

"  It  's  nothin',"  she  said,  eagerly.  "  I  '11  be 
strong  by  New- Year's  ;  it  's  only  a  day  or  two 
rest  I  need.  I  've  no  tho't  o'  givin'  up." 


MARGEET  HOWTH.  209 

And  to  show  how  strong  she  was,  she  got  up 
and  hobbled  about  to  make  the  tea.  He  had 
not  the  heart  to  stop  her ;  she  did  not  want  to 
die,  —  why  should  she  ?  the  world  was  a  great, 
warm,  beautiful  nest  for  the  little  cripple, — 
why  need  he  show  her  the  cold  without  ?  He 
saw  her  at  last  go  near  the  door  where  old 
Yare  sat  outside,  then  heard  her  breathless  cry, 
and  a  sob.  A  moment  after  the  old  man  came 
into  the  room,  carrying  her,  and,  laying  her 
down  on  the  settee,  chafed  her  hands,  and  mis 
shapen  head. 

"  What  ails  her  ?  "  he  said,  looking  up,  be 
wildered,  to  Holmes.  "  We  've  killed  her 
among  us." 

She  laughed,  though  the  great  eyes  were 
growing  dim,  and  drew  his  coarse  gray  hair 
into  her  hand. 

"  Yoh  wur  long  comin',"  she  said,  weakly. 
"  I  hunted  fur  yoh  every  day,  —  every  day." 

The  old  man  had  pushed  her  hair  back,  and 
was  reading  the  sunken  face  with  a  wild  fear. 

"  What  ails  her  ?  "  he  cried.  "  Ther'  's  some- 
thin'  gone  wi'  my  girl.  Was  it  my  fault  ?  Lo, 
was  it  my  fault  ?  " 

"  Be  quiet !  "  said  Holmes,  sternly. 

"  Is  it  that  ?  "  he  gasped,  shrilly.  «  My  God  ! 
not  that !  I  can't  bear  it !  " 

Lois  soothed  him,  patting  his  face  childishly. 


210  MARGRET   HOWTH. 

"  Am  I  dyin'  now  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  fright 
ened  look  at  Holmes. 

He  told  her  no,  cheerfully. 

"  I  've  no  tho't  o'  dyin'.  I  dunnot  thenk  o' 
dyin'.  Don't  mind,  dear !  Yoh  '11  stay  with  me, 
fur  good  ?  " 

The  man's  paroxysm  of  fear  for  her  over,  his 
spite  and  cowardice  came  uppermost. 

"  It  's  him,"  he  yelped,  looking  fiercely  at 
Holmes.  "  He  's  got  my  life  in  his  hands.  He 
kin  take  it.  What  does  he  keer  fur  me  or  my 
girl  ?  I  '11  not  stay  wi'  yoh  no  longer,  Lo. 
Mornin'  he  '11  send  me  t'  th'  lock-up,  an'  af 
ter  " 

"  I  care  for  you,  child,"  said  Holmes,  stooping 
suddenly  close  to  the  girl's  livid  face. 

"  To-morrow  ?  "  she  muttered.  "  My  Christ 
mas-day  ?  " 

He  wet  her  face  while  he  looked  over  at  the 
wretch  whose  life  he  held  in  his  hands.  It  was 
the  iron  rule  of  Holmes's  nature  to  be  just ;  but 
to-night  dim  perceptions  of  a  deeper  justice 
than  law  opened  before  him,  —  problems  he  had 
no  time  to  solve  :  the  sternest  fortress  is  liable 
to  be  taken  by  assault,  —  and  the  dew  of  the 
coming  morn  was  on  his  heart. 

"  So  as  I  've  hunted  fur  him !  "  she  whispered, 
weakly.  "  I  did  n't  thenk  it  wud  come  to  this. 
So  as  I  loved  him !  Oh,  Mr.  Holmes,  he  's  hed 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  211 

a  pore  chance  in  livin', — forgive  him  this !  Him 
that  '11  come  to-morrow  'd  say  to  forgive  him 
this." 

She  caught  the  old  man's  head  in  her  arms 
with  an  agony  of  tears,  and  held  it  tight. 

"  I  hev  hed  a  pore  chance,"  he  said,  looking 
up,  —  "  that 's  God's  truth,  Lo  !  I  dunnot  keer 
fur  that :  it  's  too  late  goin'  back.  But  Lo  — 
Mas  V  he  mumbled,  servilely,  "  it 's  on'y  a  little 
time  t'  th'  end :  let  me  stay  with  Lo.  She  loves 
me,  —  Lo  does." 

A  look  of  disgust  crept  over  Holmes's  face. 

"  Stay,  then,"  he  muttered,  —  "I  wash  my 
hands  of  you,  you  old  scoundrel !  " 

He  bent  over  Lois  with  his  rare,  pitiful  smile. 
* "  Have  I  his  life  in  my  hands  ?  I  put  it  into 
yours,  —  so,  child  !  Now  put  it  all  out  of  your 
head,  and  look  up  here  to  wish  me  good-bye." 

She  looked  up  cheerfully,  hardly  conscious 
how  deep  the  danger  had  been  ;  but  the  flush 
had  gone  from  her  face,  leaving  it  sad  and 
still. 

"  I  must  go  to  keep  Christmas,  Lois,"  he  said, 
playfully. 

"  Yoh  're  keepin'  it  here,  Sir."  She  held  her 
weak  gripe  on  his  hand  still,  with  the  vague 
outlook  in  her  eyes  that  came  there  sometimes. 
"  Was  it  fur  me  yoh  done  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  for  you." 


J212  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

"  And  fur  Him  that 's  comin',  Sir  ?  "  smiling. 

Holmes's  face  grew  graver. 

"  No,  Lois."  She  looked  into  his  eyes  be 
wildered.  "  For  the  poor  child  that  loved  me  " 
he  said,  half  to  himself,  smoothing  her  hair. 

Perhaps  in  that  day  when  the  under-currents 
of  the  soul's  life  will  be  bared,  this  man  .will  know 
the  subtile  instincts  that  drew  him  out  of  his 
self-reliance  by  the  hand  of  the  child  that  loved 
him  to  the  Love  beyond,  that  was  man  and 
*  died  for  him,  as  well  as  she.  He  did  not  see 
it  now". 

The  clear  evening  light  fel]  on  Holmes,  as  he 
stood  there  looking  down  at  the  dying  little 
lamiter :  a  powerful  figure,  with  a  face  supreme, 
masterful,  but  tender :  you  will  find  no  higher 
type  of  manhood.  Did  God  make  him  of  the 
same  blood  as  the  vicious,  cringing  wretch 
crouching  to  hide  his  black  face  at  the  other 
side  of  the  bed  ?  Some  such  thought  came 
into  Lois's  brain,  and  vexed  her,  bringing  the 
tears  to  her  eyes  :  he  was  her  father,  you  know. 
She  drew  their  hands  together,  as  if  she  would 
have  joined  them,  then  stopped,  closing  her  eyes 
wearily. 

"  It 's  all  wrong,"  she  muttered,  — "  oh,  it 's 
far  wrong !  Ther'  's  One  could  make  them  'like. 
Not  me." 

She    stroked    her    father's    hand    once,   and 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  213 

then  let  it  go.  There  was  a  long  silence. 
Holmes  glanced  out,  and  saw  the  sun  was 
down. 

"  Lois,"  he  said,  "  I  want  you  to  wish  me  a 
happy  Christmas,  as  people  do." 

Holmes  had  a  curious  vein  of  superstition  : 
he  knew  no  lips  so  pure  as  this  girl's,  and  he 
wanted  them  to  wish  him  good-luck  that  night. 
She  did  it,  looking  up  laughing  and  growing 
red :  riddles  of  life  did  not  trouble  her  childish 
fancy  long.  And  so  he  left  her,  with  a  dull 
feeling,  as  I  said  before,  that  it  was  good  to  say 
a  prayer  before  the  battle  came  on.  For  men 
who  believed  in  prayers  :  for  him,  it  was  the 
same  thing  to  make  one  day  for  Lois  hap 
pier. 


CHAPTER   X. 

IT  was  later  than  Holmes  thought :  a  gray, 
cold  evening.  The  streets  in  that  suburb  were 
lonely :  he  went  down  them,  the  new-fallen 
snow  dulling  his  step.  It  had  covered  the 
peaked  roofs  of  the  houses  too,  and  they  stood 
in  listening  rows,  white  and  still.  Here  and 
there  a  pale  flicker  from  the  gas-lamps  strug 
gled  with  the  ashy  twilight.  He  met  no  one : 
people  had  gone  home  early  on  Christmas  eve. 
He  had  no  home  to  go  to  :  pah !  there  were 
plenty  of  hotels,  he  remembered,  smiling  grim 
ly.  It  was  bitter  cold  :  he  buttoned  up  his  coat 
tightly,  as  he  walked  slowly  along  as  if  waiting 
for  some  one,  —  wondering  dully  if  the  gray  air 
were  any  colder  or  stiller  than  the  heart  hardly 
beating  under  the  coat.  Well,  men  had  con 
quered  Fate,  conquered  life  and  love,  before  now. 
It  grew  darker :  he  was  pacing  now  slowly  in  the 
shadow  of  a  long  low  wall  surrounding  the 
grounds  of  some  building.  When  he  came 
near  the  gate,  he  would  stop  and  listen :  he 
could  have  heard  a  sparrow  on  the  snow,  it  was 
so  still.  After  a  while  he  did  hear  footsteps, 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  215 

crunching  the  snow  heavily  ;  the  gate  clicked  as 
they  came  out :  it  was  Knowles,  and  the  clergy 
man  whom  Dr.  Cox  did  not  like  ;  Vandyke  was 
his  name. 

"  Don't  bolt  the  gate,"  said  Knowles ;  "  Miss 
Howth  will  be  out  presently." 

They  sat  down  on  a  pile  of  lumber  near 
by,  waiting,  apparently.  Holmes  went  up  and 
joined  them,  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the 
lumber,  talking  to  Vandyke.  He  did  not  meet 
him,  perhaps,  once  in  six  months  ;  but  he  be 
lieved  in  the  man,  thoroughly. 

"  I  've  just  helped  Knowles  build  a  Christ 
mas-tree  in  yonder,  —  the  House  of  Refuge, 
you  know.  He  could  not  tell  an  oak  from  an 
arbor-vitse,  I  believe." 

Knowles  was  in  no  mood  for  quizzing. 

"  There  are  other  things  I  don't  know,"  he 
said,  gloomily,  recurring  to  some  subject  Holmes 
had  interrupted.  "  The  House  is  going  to  the 
Devil,  Charley,  headlong." 

"  There  's  no  use  in  saying  no,"  said  the 
other ;  "  you  '11  call  me  a  lying  diviner." 

Knowles  did  not  listen. 

"  Seems  as  if  I  were  to  go  groping  and  stum 
bling  through  the  world  like  some  forsaken  Cy 
clops  with  his  eye  out,  dragging  down  what 
ever  I  touched.  If  there  were  anything  to  hold 
by,  anything  certain  !  " 
10 


216  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

Vandyke  looked  at  him  gravely,  but  did  not 
answer ;  rose  and  walked  indolently  up  and 
down  to  keep  himself  warm.  A  lithe,  slow  fig 
ure,  a  clear  face  with  delicate  lips,  and  careless 
eyes  that  saw  everything  :  the  face  of  a  man 
quick  to  learn,  and  slow  to  teach. 

"  .There  she  comes ! "  said  Knowles,  as  the 
lock  of  the  gate  rasped. 

Holmes  had  heard  the  slow  step  in  the  snow 
long  before.  A  small  woman  came  out,  and 
went  down  the  silent  street  into  the  road  be 
yond.  Holmes  kept  his  back  turned  to  her, 
lighting  his  cigar;  the  other  men  watched  her 
eagerly. 

"  What  do  you  think,  Vandyke  ?  "  demanded 
Knowles.  "  How  will  she  do  ?  " 

"  Do  for  what  ?  "  —  resuming  his  lazy  walk. 
"  You  talk  as  if  she  were  a  machine.  It  is  the 
way  with  modern  reformers.  Men  are  so  many 
ploughs  and  harrows  to  work  on  '  the  classes.' 
Do  for  what?" 

Knowles  flushed  hotly. 

"  The  work  the  Lord  has  left  for  her.  Do 
you  mean  to  say  there  is  none  to  do,  —  you, 
pledged  to  Missionary  labour  ?  " 

The  young  man's  face  coloured. 

"  I  know  this  street  needs  paving  terribly, 
Knowles  ;  but  I  don't  see  a  boulder  in  your 
hands.  Yet  the  great  Task-master  does  not 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  217 

despise  the  pavers.  He  did  not  give  you  the 
spirit  and  understanding  for  paving,  eh,  is  that 
it  ?  How  do  you  know  He  .gave  this  Margret 
Howth  the  spirit  and  understanding  of  a  re 
former  ?  There  may  be  higher  work  for  her  to 
do." 

"  Higher  ! "  The  old  man  stood  aghast.  "  I 
know  your  creed,  then,  —  that  the  true  work  for 
a  man  or  a  woman  is  that  which  develops  their 
highest  nature  ?  " 

Vandyke  laughed. 

"  You  have  a  creed-mania,  Knowles.  You 
have  a  confession  of  faith  ready-made  .for  every 
body,  but  yourself.  I  only  meant  for  you  to 
take  care  what  you  do.  That  woman  looks 
as  the  Prodigal  Son  might  have  done  when 
he  began  to  be  in  want,  and  would  fain  have 
fed  himself  with  the  husks  that  the  swine  did 
eat." 

Knowles  got  up  moodily. 

"  Whose  work  is  it,  then  ?  "  he  muttered,  fol 
lowing  the  men  down  the  street ;  for  they  walked 
on.  "  The  world  has  waited  six  thousand  years 
for  help.  It  comes  slowly,  —  slowly,  Vandyke  ; 
even  through  your  religion." 

The  young  man  did  not  answer :  looked  up, 
with  quiet,  rapt  eyes,  through  the  silent  city, 
and  the  clear  gray  beyond.  They  passed  a  lit 
tle  church  lighted  up  for  evening  service :  as  if 


218  MARGEET   HOWTH. 

to  give  a  meaning  to  the  old  man's  words,  they 
were  chanting  the  one  anthem  of  the  world,  the 
Gloria  in  Excelsis.  Hearing  the  deep  organ- 
roll,  the  men  stopped  outside  to  listen  :  it  heaved 
and  sobbed  through  the  night,  as  if  bearing  up 
to  God  the  wrong  of  countless  aching  hearts, 
then  was  silent,  and  a  single  voice  swept  over 
the  moors  in  a  long,  lamentable  cry  :  —  "  Thou 
that  takest  away  the  sins  of  the  world,  have 
mercy  upon  us  !  " 

The  men  stood  silent,  until  the  hush  was  bro 
ken  by  a  low  murmur :  — "  For  Thou  only  art 
holy."  Holmes  had  taken  off  his  hat,  uncon 
scious  that  he  did  it ;  he  put  it  on  slowly,  and 
walked  on.  What  was  it  that  Knowles  had 
said  to  him  once  about  mean  and  selfish  taints 
on  his  divine  soul  ?  "  For  Thou  only  art  holy :" 
if  there  were  truth  in  that ! 

"  How  quiet  it  is  ! "  he  said,  as  they  stopped 
to  leave  him.  It  was,  —  a  breathless  quiet ;  the 
great  streets  of  the  town  behind  them  were 
shrouded  in  snow ;  the  hills,  the  moors,  the 
prairie  swept  off  into  the  skyless  dark,  a  gray 
and  motionless  sea  lit  by  a  low  watery  moon. 
"  The  very  earth  listens,"  he  said. 

"  Listens  for  what  ? "  said  the  literal  old 
Doctor. 

"  I  think  it  listens  always/''  said  Vandyke, 
his  eye  on  fire.  "  For  its  King  —  that  shall  be. 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  219 

Not  as  He  came  before.     It  has  not  long  to 
wait  now :  the  New  Year  is  not  far  off." 

"  I  've  no  faith  in  holding  your  hands,  wait 
ing  for  it ;  nor  have  you  either,  Charley,"  growled 
Knowles.  "  There  's  an  infernal  lot  of  work  to 
be  done  before  it  comes,  I  fancy.  Here>  let  me 
light  my  cigar." 

Holmes  bade  them  good-night,  laughing,  and 
struck  into  the  by-road  through  the  hills.  He 
shook  hands  with  Vandyke  before  he  went, 
—  a  thing  he  scarce  ever  did  with  anybody. 
Knowles  noticed  it,  and,  after  he  was  out  of 
hearing,  mumbled  out  some  sarcasm  at  "  a  min 
ister  of  the  gospel  consorting  with  a  cold,  silent 
scoundrel  like  that!"  Vandyke  listened  to  his 
scolding  in  his  usual  lazy  way,  and  they  went 
back  into  town. 

The  road  Holmes  took  was  rutted  deep  with 
wagon-wheels,  not  easily  travelled;  he  walked 
slowly  therefore,  being  weak,  stopping  now  and 
then  to  gather  strength.  He  had  not  counted 
the  hours  until  this  day,  to  be  balked  now  by  a 
little  loss  of  blood.  The  moon  was  nearly  down 
before  he  reached  the  Cloughton  hills  :  he  turned 
there  into  a  narrow  path  which  he  remembered 
well.  Now  and  then  he  saw  the  mark  of  a  lit 
tle  shoe  in  the  snow,  —  looking  down  at  it  with 
a  hot  panting  in  his  veins,  and  a  strange  flash 
in  his  eye,  as  he  walked  on  steadily. 


220  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

There  was  a  turn  in  the  path  at  the  top  of 
the  hill,  a  sunken  wall,  with  a  broad  stone  from 
which  the  wind  had  blown  the  snow.  This 
was  the  place.  He  sat  down  on  the  stone,  rest 
ing.  Just  there  she  had  stood,  clutching  her 
little  fingers  behind  her,  when  he  came  up  and 
threw  back  her  hood  to  look  in  her  face  :  how 
pale  and  worn  it  was,  even  then  !  He  had  not 
looked  at  her  to-night :  he  would  not,  if  he  had 
been  dying,  with  those  men  standing  there. 
He  stood  alone  in  the  world  with  this  little 
Margret.  How  those  men  had  carped,  and 
criticised  her,  chattered  of  the  duties  of  her 
soul !  Why 5  it  was  his,  it  was  his  own,  softer 
and  fresher.  There  was  not  a  glance  with 
which  they  followed  the  weak  little  body  in  its 
poor  dress  that  he  had  not  seen,  and  savagely 
resented.  They  measured  her  strength  ?  counted 
how  long  the  bones  and  blood  would  last  in 
their  House  of  Refuge  ?  There  was  not  a  mor 
sel  of  her  flesh  that  was  not  pure  and  holy  in 
his  eyes.  His  Margret  ?  He  chafed  with  an 
intolerable  fever  to  make  her  his,  but  for  one 
instant,  as  she  had  been  once.  Now,  when  it 
was  too  late.  For  he  went  back  over  every 
word  he  had  spoken  that  night,  forcing  himself 
to  go  through  with  it, —  every  cold,  poisoned 
word.  It  was  a  fitting  penance.  "  There  is 
no  such  thing  as  love  in  real  life  :  "  he  had  told 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  221 

her  that !  How  he  had  stood,  with  all  the  pow 
er  of  his  "  divine  soul "  in  his  will,  and  told  her, 
—  he,  —  a  man,  —  that  he  put  away  her  love 
from  him  then,  forever!  He  spared  himself 
nothing,  —  slurred  over  nothing  ;  spurned  him 
self,  as  it  were,  for  the  meanness,  in  which  he 
had  wallowed  that  night.  How  firm  he  had 
been  !  how  kind  !  how  masterful !  —  pluming 
himself  on  his  man's  strength,  while  he  held  her 
in  his  power  as  one  might  hold  an  insect,  played 
with  her  shrinking  woman's  nature,  and  tram 
pled  it  under  his  feet,  coldly  and  quietly !  She 
was  in  his  way,  and  he  had  put  her  aside.  How 
the  fine  subtile  spirit  had  risen  up  out  of  its 
agony  of  shame,  and  scorned  him !  How  it 
had  flashed  from  the  puny  flame  standing  there 
in  the  muddy  road  despised  and  jeered  at,  and 
calmly  judged  him  !  He  might  go  from  her  as 
he  would,  toss  her  off'  like  a  worn-out  plaything, 
but  he  could  not  blind  her :  let  him  put  on  what 
face  he  would  to  the  world,  whether  they  called 
him  a  master  among  men,  or  a  miser,  or,  as 
Knowles  did  to-night  after  he  turned  away,  a 
scoundrel,  this  girl  laid  her  little  hand  on  his 
soul  with  an  utter  recognition  :  she  alone.  "  She 
knew  him  for  a  better  man  than  he  knew  him- 
self  that  night :  "  he  remembered  the  words. 

The  night  was  growing  murky  and  bitingly 
cold :  there  was  no  prospect  on  the  snow-cov- 


222  MARGRET  HOWTII. 

ered  hills,  or  the  rough  road  at  his  feet  with 
its  pools  of  ice-water,  to  bring  content  into  his 
face,  or  the  dewy  light  into  his  eyes;  but  they 
came  there,  slowly,  while  he  sat  thinking.  Some 
old  thought  was  stealing  into  his  brain,  perhaps, 
fresh  and  warm,  like  a  soft  spring  air,  —  some 
hope  of  the  future,  in  which  this  child- woman^/ 
came  close  to  him,  and  near.  It  was  an  idle 
dream,  only  would  taunt  him  when  it  was  over, 
but  he  opened  his  arms  to  it:  it  was  an  old 
friend ;  it  had  made  him  once  a  purer  and  bet 
ter  man  than  he  could  ever  be  again.  A  warm, 
happy  dream,  whatever  it  may  have  been :  the 
rugged,  sinister  face  grew  calm  and  sad,  as  the 
faces  of  the  dead  change  when  loving  tears  fall 
on  them. 

He  sighed  wearily  :  the  homely  little  hope 
was  fanning  into  life  stagnant  depths  of  de 
sire  and  purpose,  stirring  his  resolute  ambition. 
Too  late  ?  Was  it  too  late  ?  Living  or  dead 
she  was  his,  though  he  should  never  see  her 
face,  by  some  subtile  power  that  had  made 
them  one,  he  knew  not  when  nor  how.  He 
did  not  reason  now,  —  abandoned  himself,  as 
morbid  men  only  do,  to  this  delirious  hope  of 
a  home,  and  cheerful  warmth,  and  this  wom 
an's  love  fresh  and  eternal :  a  pleasant  dream 
at  first,  to  be  put  away  at  pleasure.  But  it 
grew  bolder,  touched  under-deeps  in  his  nature 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  223 

of  longing  and  intense  passion  ;  all  that  he 
knew  or  felt  of  power  or  will,  of  craving  ef 
fort,  of  success  in  the  world,  drifted  into  this 
dream,  and  became  one  with  it.  He  stood  up, 
his  vigorous  frame  starting  into  a  nobler  man 
hood,  with  the  consciousness  of  right,  —  with 
a  willed  assurance,  that,  the  first  victory  gained, 
the  others  should  follow. 

It  was  late ;  he  must  go  on ;  he  had  not 
meant  to  sit  idling  by  the  road-side.  He 
went  through  the  fields,  his  heavy  step  crush 
ing  the  snow,  a  dry  heat  in  his  blood,  his  eye 
intent,  still,  until  he  came  within  sight  of  the 
farm-house  ;  then  he  went  on,  cool  and  grave, 
in  his  ordinary  port. 

The  house  was  quite  dark ;  only  a  light  in 
one  of  the  lower  windows,  —  the  library,  he 
thought.  The  broad  field  he  was  crossing 
sloped  down  to  the  house,  so  that,  as  he  came 
nearer,  he  saw  the  little  room  quite  plainly  in 
the  red  glow  of  the  fire  within,  the  curtains 
being  undrawn.  He  had  a  keen  eye ;  did  not 
fail  to  see  the  marks  of  poverty  about  the  place, 
the  gateless  fences,  even  the  bare  room  with 
its  worn  and  patched  carpet :  noted  it  all  with 
a  triumphant  gleam  of  satisfaction.  There  was 
a  black  shadow  passing  and  repassing  the  win 
dows  :  he  waited  a  moment  looking  at  it,  then 
came  more  slowly  towards  them,  intenser  heats 
10* 


224  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

smouldering  in  his  face.  He  would  not  sur 
prise  her ;  she  should  be  as  ready  as  he  was 
for  the  meeting.  If  she  ever  put  her  pure 
hand  in  his  again,  it  should  be  freely  done, 
and  of  her  own  good-will. 

She  saw  him  as  he  came  up  on  the  porch, 
and  stopped,  looking  out,  as  if  bewildered, — 
then  resumed  her  walk,  mechanically.  What 
it  cost  her  to  see  him  again  he  could  not  tell : 
her  face  did '  not  alter.  It  was  lifeless  and 
schooled,  the  eyes  looking  straight  forward  al 
ways,  indifferently.  Was  this  his  work  ?  If 
he  had  killed  her  outright,  it  would  have  been 
better  than  this. 

The  windows  were  low :  it  had  been  his  old 
habit  to  go  in  through  them,  and  he  now  went 
up  to  one  unconsciously.  As  he  opened  it,  he 
saw  her  turn  away  for  an  instant ;  then  she 
waited  for  him,  entirely  tranquil,  the  clear  fire 
shedding  a  still  glow  over  the  room,  no  cry  or 
shiver  of  pain  to  show  how  his  coming  broke 
open  the  old  wound.  She  smiled  even,  when 
he  leaned  against  the  window,  with  a  careless 
welcome. 

Holmes  stopped,  confounded.  It  did  not  suit 
him,  —  this.  If  you  know  a  man's  nature,  you 
comprehend  why.  The  bitterest  reproach,  or  a 
proud  contempt  would  have  been  less  galling 
than  this  gentle  indifference.  His  hold  had 


MARGRET    HOWTH.  225 

slipped  from  off  the  woman,  he  believed.  A 
moment  before  he  had  remembered  how  he  had 
held  her  in  his  arms,  touched  her  cold  lips,  and 
then  flung  her  off,  —  he  had  remembered  it, 
every  nerve  shrinking  with  remorse  and  unut- 

terable  tenderness  :  now !  The  utter  quiet 

of  her  face  told  more  than  words  could  do. 
She  did  not  love  him  ;  he  was  nothing  to  her. 
Then  love  was  a  lie.  A  moment  before  he 
could  have  humbled  himself  in  her  eyes  as 
low  as  he  lay  in  his  own,  and  accepted  her 
pardon  as  a  necessity  of  her  enduring,  faith 
ful  nature  :  now,  the  whole  strength  of  the 
man  sprang  into  rage,  and  mad  desire  of  con 
quest. 

He  came  gravely  across  the  room,  holding 
out  his  hand  with  his  old  quiet  control.  She 
might  be  cold  and  grave  as  he,  but  underneath 
he  knew  there  was  a  thwarted,  hungry  spirit, 
—  a  strong,  fine  spirit  as  dainty  Ariel.  He 
would  sting  it  to  life,  and  tame  it :  it  was 
his. 

"  I  thought  you  would  come,  Stephen,"  she 
said,  simply,  motioning  him  to  a  chair. 

Could  this  automaton  be  Margret  ?  He 
leaned  on  the  mantel-shelf,  looking  down  with 
a  cynical  sneer. 

"  Is  that  the  welcome  ?  Why,  there  are  a 
thousand  greetings  for  this  time  of  love  and 


226  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

good  words  you  might  have  chosen.  Besides, 
I  have  come  back  ill  and  poor,  —  a  beggar 
perhaps.  How  do  women  receive  such,  — 
generous  women  ?  Is  there  no  etiquette  ? 
no  hand-shaking  ?  nothing  more  ?  remember 
ing  that  I  was  once  —  not  indifferent  to 
you." 

He  laughed.  She  stood  still  and  grave  as 
before. 

"  Why,  Margret,  I  have  been  down  near 
death  since  that  night." 

He  thought  her  lips  grew  gray,  but  she  looked 
up  clear  and  steady. 

"  I  am  glad  you  did  not  die.  Yes,  I  can  say 
that.  As  for  hand-shaking,  my  ideas  may  be 
peculiar  as  your  own." 

"  She  measures  her  words,"  he  said,  as  to 
himself ;  "  her  very  eye-light  is  ruled  by  deco 
rum  ;  she  is  a  machine,  for  work.  She  has 
swept  her  child's  heart  clean  of  anger  and  re 
venge,  even  scorn  for  the  wretch  that  sold  him 
self  for  money.  There  was  nothing  else  to 
sweep  out,  was  there  ?  "  —  bitterly,  —  "  no 
friendships,  such  as  weak  women  nurse  and 
coddle  into  being,  —  or  love,  that  they  live  in, 
and  die  for  sometimes,  in  a  silly  way  ?  " 

"  Unmanly ! " 

"  No,  not  unmanly.  Margret,  let  us  be  seri 
ous  and  calm.  It  is  no  time  to  trifle  or  wear 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  227 

masks.  That  has  passed  between  us  which 
leaves  no  room  for  sham  courtesies." 

"There  needs  none,"  —  meeting  his  eye  un 
flinchingly.  "  I  am  ready  to  meet  you  and 
hear  your  good-bye.  Dr.  Knowles  told  me  your 
marriage  was  near  at  hand.  I  knew  you  would 
come,  Stephen.  You  did  before." 

He  winced,  —  the  more  that  her  voice  was  so 
clear  of  pain. 

"  Why  should  I  come  ?  To  show  you  what 
sort  of  a  heart  I  have  sold  for  money  ?  Why, 
you  think  you  know,  little  Margret.  You  can 
reckon  up  its  deformity,  its  worthlessness,  on 
your  cool  fingers.  You  could  tell  the  serene 
and  gracious  lady  who  is  chaffering  for  it  what 
a  bargain  she  has  made,  — that  there  is  not  in  it 
one  spark  of  manly  honour  or  true  love.  Don't 
venture  too  near  it  in  your  coldness  and  pru 
dence.  It  has  tiger  passions  I  will  not  answer 
for.  Give  me  your  hand,  and  feel  how  it 
pants  like  a  hungry  fiend.  It  will  have  food, 
Margret." 

She  drew  away  the  hand  he  grasped,  and 
stood  back  in  the  shadow. 

"  What  is  it  to  me  ?  "  —  in  the  same  meas 
ured  voice. 

Holmes  wiped  the  cold  drops  from  his  fore 
head,  a  sort  of  shudder  in  his  powerful  frame. 
He  stood  a  moment  looking  into  the  fire,  his 
head  dropped  on  his  arm. 


MARGRET  HOWTH. 

"  Let  it  be  so,"  he  said  at  last,  quietly.  "  The 
worn  old  heart  can  gnaw  on  itself  a  little  longer. 
I  have  no  mind  to  whimper  over  pain." 

Something  that  she  saw  on  the  dark  sardonic 
face,  as  the  red  gleams  lighted  it,  made  her  start 
convulsively,  as  if  she  would  go  to  him ;  then 
controlling  herself,  she  stood  silent.  He  had  not 
seen  the  movement,  —  or,  if  he  saw,  did  not 
heed  it.  He  did  not  care  to  tame  her  now. 
The  firelight  flashed  and  darkened,  the  crack 
ling  wood  breaking  the  dead  silence  of  the 
room. 

"  It  does  not  matter,"  he  said,  raising  his 
head,  laying  his  arm  over  his  strong  chest  un 
consciously,  as  if  to  shut  in  all  complaint.  "  I 
had  an  idle  fancy  that  it  would  be  good  on  this 
Christmas  night  to  bare  the  secrets  hidden  in 
here  to  you,  —  to  suffer  your  pure  eyes  to 
probe  the  sorest  depths :  I  thought  perhaps 
they  would  have  a  blessing  power.  It  was 
an  idle  fancy.  What  is  my  want  or  crime  to 
you  ?  " 

The  answer  came  slowly,  but  it  did  come. 

"  Nothing  to  me." 

She  tried  to  meet  the  gaunt  face  looking 
down  on  her  with  its  proud  sadness,  —  did 
meet  it  at  last  with  her  meek  eyes. 

"  No,  nothing  to  you.  There  is  no  need 
that  I  should  stay  longer,  is  there  ?  You  made 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  229 

ready  to  meet  me,  and  have  gone  through  your 
part  well." 

"  It  is  no  part.  I  speak  God's  truth  to  you  as 
I  can." 

"  I  know.  There  is  nothing  more  for  us  to 
say  to  each  other  in  this  world,  then,  except 
good-night.  Words  —  polite  words  —  are  bit 
terer  than  death,  sometimes.  If  ever  we  hap 
pen  to  meet,  that  courteous  smile  on  your  face 
will  be  enough  to  speak  —  God's  truth  for  you. 
Shall  we  say  good-night  now  ?  " 

"  If  you  will." 

She  drew  farther  into  the  shadow,  leaning  on 
a  chair. 

He  stopped,  some  sudden  thought  striking 
him. 

"  I  have  a  whim,"  he  said,  dreamily,  "  that  I 
would  like  to  satisfy.  It  would  be  a  trifle  to 
you  :  will  you  grant  it  ?  —  for  the  sake  of  some 
old  happy  day,  long  ago  ?  " 

She  put  her  hand  up  to  her  throat ;  then  it 
fell  again. 

"  Anything  you  wish,  Stephen,"  she  said, 
gravely. 

"  Yes.  Come  nearer,  then,  and  let  me  see 
what  I  have  lost.  A  heart  so  cold  and  strong 
as  yours  need  not  fear  inspection.  I  have  a 
fancy  to  look  into  it,  for  the  last  time." 

She  stood  motionless  and  silent. 


230  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

"  Come,"  —  softly,  —  "  there  is  no  hurt  in 
your  heart  that  fears  detection  ?  " 

She  came  out  into  the  full  light,  and  stood 

)  before  him,  pushing  back  the  hair  from  her 
forehead,  that  he  might  see  every  wrinkle,  and 
the  faded,  lifeless  eyes.  It  was  a  true  woman's 
motion,  remembering  even  then  to  scorn  decep 
tion.  The  light  glowed  brightly  in  her  face,  as 
the  slow  minutes  ebbed  without  a  sound :  she 
only  saw  his  face  in  shadow,  with  the  fitful 
gleam  of  intolerable  meaning  in  his  eyes.  Her 
own  quailed  and  fell. 

"  Does  it  hurt  you  that  I  should  even  look  at 
you  ? "  he  said,  drawing  back.  "  Why,  even 
the  sainted  dead  suffer  us  to  come  near  them 
after  they  have  died  to  us,  —  to  touch  their 
hands,  to  kiss  their  lips,  to  find  what  look 
they  left  in  their  faces  for  us.  Be  patient,  for 
the  sake  of  the  old  time.  My  whim  is  not 
satisfied  yet." 

"  I  am  patient." 

"  Tell  me  something  of  yourself,  to  take 
with  me  when  I  go,  for  the  last  time.  Shall 
I  think  of  you  as  happy  in  these  days  ?  " 

"  I  am  contented,"  —  the  words  oozing  from 
her  white  lips  in  the  bitterness  of  truth.  "  I 
asked  God,  that  night,  to  show  me  my  work; 
and  I  think  He  has  shown  it  to  me.  I  do  not 
complain.  It  is  a  great  work." 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  231 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  he  demanded,  fiercely. 

"  No,  not  all.  It  pleases  me  to  feel  I  have 
a  warm  home,  and  to  help  keep  it  cheerful. 
When  my  father  kisses  me  at  night,  or  my 
mother  says,  '  God  bless  you,  child.'  I  know 
that  is  enough,  that  I  ought  to  be  happy." 

The  old  clock  in  the  corner  hummed  and 
ticked  through  the  deep  silence,  like  the  hum 
ble  voice  of  the  home  she  toiled  to  keep  warm, 
thanking  her,  comforting  her. 

"  Once  more,"  as  the  light  grew  stronger  on 
her  face,  — "  wih1  you  look  down  into  your 
heart  that  you  have  given  to  this  great  work, 
and  tell  me  what  you  see  there  ?  Dare  you 
do  it,  Margret?" 

"  I  dare  do  it,"  —  but  her  whisper  was  husky. 

«  Go  on." 

He  watched  her  more  as  a  judge  would  a 
criminal,  as  she  sat  before  him :  she  struggled 
weakly  under  the  power  of  his  eye,  not  meet 
ing  it.  He  waited  relentless,  seeing  her  face 
slowly  whiten,  her  limbs  shiver,  her  bosom 
heave. 

"  Let  me  speak  for  you,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  I  know  who  once  filled  your  heart  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  others :  it  is  no  time  for  mock 
shame.  /I  know  it  was  my  hand  that  held  the 
very  secret  of  your  being.  I  Whatever  I  may  have 
been,  you  loved  me,  Margret.  Will  you  say 
that  now  ?  " 


232  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

"  I  loved  you,  —  once." 

Whether  it  were  truth  that  nerved  her,  or 
self-delusion,  she  was  strong  now  to  utter 
it  all. 

"  You  love  me  no  longer,  then  ?  " 

"  I  love  you  no  longer." 

She  did  not  look  at  him  ;  she  was  conscious 
only  of  the  hot  fire  wearing  her  eyes,  and  the 
vexing  click  of  the  clock.  After  a  while  he 
bent  over  her  silently,  —  a  manly,  tender  pres 
ence. 

"  When  love  goes  once,"  he  said,  "  it  never 
returns.  Did  you  say  it  was  gone,  Margret?" 

One  effort  more,  and  Duty  would  be  sat 
isfied. 

"  It  is  gone." 

In  the  slow  darkness  that  came  to  her  she 
covered  her  face,  knowing  and  hearing  nothing. 
When  she  looked  up,  Holmes  was  standing  by 
the  window,  with  his  face  toward  the  gray 
fields.  It  was  a  long  time  before  he  turned  and 
came  to  her. 

"  You  have  spoken  honestly :  it  is  an  old  fash 
ion  of  yours.  You  believed  what  you  said.  Let 
me  also  tell  you  what  you  call  God's  truth,  for 
a  moment,  Margret.  It  will  not  do  you  harm." 
—  He  spoke  gravely,  solemnly.  —  "  When  you 
loved  me  long  ago,  selfish,  erring  as  I  was,  you 
w.  fulfilled  the  law  of  your  nature ;  when  you  put 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  233 

that  love  out  of  your  heart,  you  make  your  duty 
a  tawdry  sham,  and  your  life  a  lie.  Listen  to 
me.  I  am  calm." 

It  was  calmness  that  made  her  tremble  as  she 
had  not  done  before,  with  a  strange  suspicion  of 
the  truth  flashing  on  her.  That  she,  casing  her 
self  in  her  pride,  her  conscious  righteousness, 
hugging  her  new-found  philanthropy  close,  had 
sunk  to  a  depth  of  niggardly  selfishness,  of 
which  this  man  knew  nothing.  Nobler  than 
she ;  half  angry  as  she  felt  that,  sitting  at  his 
feet,  looking  up.  He  knew  it,  too  ;  the  grave 
judging  voice  told  it ;  he  had  taken  his  rightful 
place.  Just,  as  only  a  man  can  be,  in  his  judg 
ment  of  himself  and  her :  her  love  that  she 
had  prided  herself  with,  seemed  weak  and 
drifting,  brought  into  contact  with  this  cool 
integrity  of  meaning.  I  think  she  was  glad  to 
be  humbled  before  him.  Women  have  strange 
fancies,  sometimes. 

"  You  have  deceived  yourself,"  he  said :  "  when 
you  try  to  fill  your  heart  with  this  work,  you 
serve  neither  your  God  nor  your  fellow-man. 
You  tell  me,"  stooping  close  to  her,  "  that  I 
am  nothing  to  you  :  you  believe  it,  poor  child ! 
There  is  not  a  line  on  your  face  that  does 
not  prove  it  false.  I  have  keen  eyes,  Mar- 
gret!" —  He  laughed.  —  "  You  have  wrung  this 
love  out  of  your  heart  ?  If  it  were  easy  to  do, 


234  MAKGRET  HOWTH. 

did  it  need  to  wring  with  it  every  sparkle  of 
pleasure  and  grace  out  of  your  life  !  Your 
very  hair  is  gathered  out  of  your  sight :  you 
feared  to  remember  how  my  hand  had  touched 
it?  Your  dress  is  stingy  and  hard;  your  step, 
your  eyes,  your  mouth  under  rule.  So  hard 
it  was  to  force  yourself  into  an  old  worn-out 
woman !  Oh,  Margret !  Margret !  " 

She  moaned  under  her  breath. 

"  I  notice  trifles,  child  !  Yonder,  in  that  cor 
ner,  used  to  stand  the  desk  where  I  helped  you 
with  your  Latin.  How  you  hated  it !  Do  you 
remember  ?  " 

"  I  remember." 

"  It  always  stood  there :  it  is  gone  now. 
Outside  of  the  gate  there  was  that  elm  I  plant 
ed,  and  you  promised  to  water  while  I  was 
gone.  It  is  cut  down  now  by  the  roots." 

u  I  had  it  done,  Stephen." 

"  I  know.  Do  you  know  why  ?  Because 
you  love  me :  because  you  do  not  dare  to  think 
of  me,  you  dare  not  trust  yourself  to  look  at  the 
tree  that  I  had  planted." 

She  started  up  with  a  cry,  and  stood  there  in 
the  old  way,  her  fingers  catching  at  each  other. 

"  It  is  cruel,  —  let  me  go  !  " 

"  It  is  not  cruel."  —  He  came  up  closer  to  her. 
—  "You  think  you  do  not  love  me,  and  see 
what  I  have  made  you !  Look  at  the  torpor 


MARGRET   HOWTH.  235 

of  this  face,  —  the  dead,  frozen  eyes  !  It  is  a 
c  nightmare  death  in  life.'  Good  God,  to  think 
that  I  have  done  this !  To  think  of  the  count 
less  days  of  agony,  the  nights,  the  years  of  sol 
itude  that  have  brought  her  to  this,  —  little 
Margret ! " 

He  paced  the  floor,  slowly.  She  sat  down 
on  a  low  stool,  leaning  her  head  on  her  hands. 
The  little  figure,  the  bent  head,  the  quivering 
chin  brought  up  her  childhood  to  him.  She 
used  to  sit  so  when  he  had  tormented  her,  wait 
ing  to  be  coaxed  back  to  love  and  smiles  again. 
The  hard  man's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  as  he 
thought  of  it.  He  watched  the  deep,  tearless 
sobs  that  shook  her  breast :  he  had  wounded 
her  to  death,  —  his  bonny  Margret !  She  was 
like  a  dead  thing  now  :  what  need  to  torture 
her  longer  ?  Let  him  be  manly  and  go  out  to 
his  solitary  life,  taking  the  remembrance  of 
what  he  had  done  with  him  for  company.  He 
rose  uncertainly,  —  then  came  to  her  :  was  that 
the  way  to  leave  her  ? 

"  I  am  going,  Margret,"  he  whispered,  "  but 
let  me  tell  you  a  story  before  I  go,  —  a  Christ 
mas  story,  say.  It  will  not  touch  you,  —  it  is 
too  late  to  hope  for  that,  —  but  it  is  right  that 
you  should  hear  it." 

She  looked  up  wearily. 

«  As  you  will,  Stephen." 


MARGRET    HOWTH. 

Whatever  impulse  drove  the  man  to  speak 
words  that  he  knew  were  useless,  made  him 
stand  back  from  her,  as  though  she  were  some 
thing  he  was  unfit  to  touch  :  the  words  dragged 
from  him  slowly. 

"  I  had  a  curious  dream  to-night,  Margret,  — 
a  waking  dream  :  only  a  clear  vision  of  what 
had  been  once.  Do  you  remember  —  the  old 
time  ?  " 

What  disconnected  rambling  was  this  ?  Yet 
the  girl  understood  it,  looked  into  the  low  fire 
with  sad,  listening  eyes. 

"  Long  ago.  That  was  a  free,  strong  life 
that  opened  before  us  then,  little  one,  —  before 
you  and  me  ?  Do  you  remember  the  Christ 
mas  before  I  went  away  ?  I  had  a  strong  arm 
and  a  hungry  brain  to  go  out  into  the  world 
with,  then.  Something  better,  too,  I  had.  A 
purer  self  than  was  born  with  me  came  late  in 
•life,  and  nestled  in  my  heart.  Margret,  there 
was  no  fresh  loving  thought  in  my  brain  for 
God  or  man  that  did  not  grow  from  my  love 
of  you ;  there  was  nothing  noble  or  kindly  in 
my  nature  that  did  not  flow  into  that  love, 
and  deepen  there.  I  was  your  master,  too.  I 
held  my  own  soul  by  no  diviner  right  than  I 
held  your  love  and  owed  you  mine.  I  under 
stand  it,  now.  when  it  is  too  late."  —  He  wiped 
the  cold  drops  from  his  face.  — "  Now  do  you 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  237 

know  whether  it  is  remorse  I  feel,  when  I  think 
how  I  put  this  purer  self  away,  —  how  I  went 
out  triumphant  in  my  inhuman,  greedy  brain, 
—  how  I  resolved  to  know,  to  be,  to  trample 
under  foot  all  weak  love  or  homely  pleasures  ? 
I  have  been  punished.  Let  those  years  go.  I 
think,  sometimes,  I  came  near  to  the  nature  of 
the  damned  who  dare  not  love :  I  would  not. 
It  was  then  I  hurt  you,  Margret,  —  to  the  death: 
your  true  life  lay  in  me,  as  mine  in  you." 

He  had  gone  on  drearily,  as  though  holding 
colloquy  with  himself,  as  though  great  years  of 
meaning  surged  up  and  filled  the  broken  words. 
It  may  have  been  thus  with  the  girl,  for  her  face 
deepened  as  she  listened.  For  the  first  time  for 
many  long  days  tears  welled  up  into  her  eyes, 
and  rolled  between  her  fingers  unheeded. 

"  I  came  through  the  streets  to-night  baffled 
in  life,  —  a  mean  man  that  might  have  been 
noble,  —  all  the  years  wasted  that  had  gone  be 
fore,  —  disappointed,  —  with  nothing  to  hope 
for  but  time  to  work  humbly  and  atone  for  the 
wrongs  I  had  done.  When  I  lay  yonder,  my 
soul  on  the  coast  of  eternity,  I  resolved  to  atone 
for  every  selfish  deed.  I  had  no  thought  of 
happiness  ;  God  knows  I  had  no  hope  of  it.  I 
had  wronged  you  most:  I  could  not  die  with 
that  wrong  unforgiven." 

"  Unforgiven,  Stephen  ?  "  she  sobbed  ;  "  I  for 
gave  it  long  ago." 


238  MARGRET    HOWTH. 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment,  then  by  some 
master  effort  choked  down  the  word  he  would 
have  spoken,  and  went  on  with  his  bitter  con 
fession. 

"  I  came  through  the  crowded  town,  a  home 
less,  solitary  man,  on  the  Christmas  eve  when 
love  comes  to  every  man.  If  ever  I  had  grown 
sick  for  a  word  or  touch  from  the  one  soul  to 
whom  alone  mine  was  open,  I  thirsted  for  it 
then.  The  better  part  of  my  nature  was  crushed 
out,  and  flung  away  with  you,  Margret.  I  cried 
for  it,  —  I  wanted  help  to  be  a  better,  purer 
man.  I  need  it  now.  And  so,"  he  said,  with 
a  smile  that  hurt  her  more  than  tears,  "  I  came 
to  my  good  angel,  to  tell  her  I  had  sinned  and 
repented,  that  I  had  made  humble  plans  for  the 

future,  and  ask  her God  knows  what  I 

would  have  asked  her  then !  She  had  forgot 
ten  me,  —  she  had  another  work  to  do !  " 

She  wrung  her  hands  with  a  helpless  cry. 
Holmes  went  to  the  window :  the  dull  waste 
of  snow  looked  to  him  as  hopeless  and  vague 
as  his  own  life. 

"  I  have  deserved  it,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
"  It  is  too  late  to  amend." 

Some  light  touch  thrilled  his  arm. 

"  Is  it  too  late,  Stephen  ?  "  whispered  a  child 
ish  voice. 

The  strong  man  trembled,  looking  at  the 
little  dark  figure  standing  near  him. 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  239 

"  We  were  both  wrong :  I  have  been  untrue, 
selfish.  More  than  you.  Stephen,  help  me  to 
be  a  better  girl ;  let  us  be  friends  again." 

She  went  back  unconsciously  to  the  old  words 
of  their  quarrels  long  ago.  He  drew  back. 

"  Do  not  mock  me,"  he  gasped.  "  I  suffer, 
Margret.  Do  not  mock  me  with  more  cour 
tesy." 

"  I  do  not ;  let  us  be  friends  again." 

She  was  crying  like  a  penitent  child  ;  her 
face  was  turned  away ;  love,  pure  and  deep, 
was  in  her  eyes.  •$ 

The  red  fire-light  grew  stronger ;  the  clock 
hushed  its  noisy  ticking  to  hear  the  story. 
Holmes's  pale  lip  worked :  what  was  this  com 
ing  to  him  ?  His  breast  heaved,  a  dry  heat 
panted  in  his  veins,  his  deep  eyes  flashed  fire. 

"  If  my  little  friend  comes  to  me,"  he  said,  in 
a  smothered  voice,  "  there  is  but  one  place  for 
her,  —  her  soul  with  my  soul,  her  heart  on  my 
heart."  —  He  opened  his  arms.  —  "  She  must 
rest  her  head  here.  My  little  friend  must  be  — 
my  wife." 

She  looked  into  the  strong,  haggard  face,  — 
a  smile  crept  out  on  her  own,  arch  and  debo 
nair  like  that  of  old  time. 

"  I  am  tired,  Stephen,"  she  whispered,  and 
softly  laid  her  head  down  on  his  breast. 

The   red   fire-light   flashed   into    a   glory   of 
11 


240  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

crimson  through  the  room,  about  the  two  fig 
ures  standing  motionless  there,  —  shimmered 
down  into  awe-struck  shadow :  who  heeded  it  ? 
The  old  clock  ticked  away  furiously,  as  if  re 
joicing  that  weary  days  were  over  for  the  pet 
and  darling  of  the  house  :  nothing  else  broke 
the  silence.  Without,  the  deep  night  paused, 
gray,  impenetrable.  Did  it  hope  that  far  angel- 
voices  would  break  its  breathless  hush,  as  once 
on  the  fields  of  Judea,  to  usher  in  Christmas 
morn  ?  A  hush,  in  air,  and  earth,  and  sky,  of 
waiting  hope,  of  a  promised  joy.  Down  there 
in  the  farm-window  two  human  hearts  had 
given  the  joy  a  name ;  the  hope  throbbed  into 
being  ;  the  hearts  touching  each  other  beat  in  a 
slow,  full  chord  of  love  as  pure  in  God's  eyes 
as  the  song  the  angels  sang,  and  as  sure  a  prom 
ise  of  the  Christ  that  is  to  come.  Forever  and 
ever,  —  not  even  death  would  part  them  ;  he 
knew  that,  holding  her  closer,  looking  down 
into  her  face. 

What  a  pale  little  face  it  was  ?  Through  the 
intensest  heat  of  his  passion  the  sting  touched 
him.  Some  instinct  made  her  glance  up  at  him, 
with  a  keen  insight,  seeing  the  morbid  gloom 
that  was  the  man's  sin,  in  his  face.  She  lifted 
her  head  from  his  breast,  and  when  he  stooped 
to  touch  her  lips,  shook  herself  free,  laughing 
carelessly.  Alas,  Stephen  Holmes  !  you  will 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  241 

have  little  time  for  morbid  questionings  in  those 
years  to  come :  her  cheerful  work  has  begun : 
no  more  self-devouring  reveries  :  your  very 
pauses  of  silent  content  and  love  will  be  rare 
and  well-earned.  No  more  tranced  raptures  for 
to-night,  —  let  to-morrow  bring  what  it  would. 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  find  your  purer  self  al 
together  perfect  ?  "  she  demanded.  "  I  think  the 
pale  skin  hurts  your  artistic  eye,  or  the  frozen 
eyes,  —  which  is  it  ?  " 

"  They  have  thawed  into  brilliant  fire,  — 
something  looks  at  me  half-yielding  and  half- 
defiant,  —  you  know  that,  you  vain  child  ! 
But,  Margret,  nothing  can  atone " 

He  stopped. 

"  Yes,  stop.  That  is  right,  Stephen.  Re 
morse  grows  maudlin  when  it  goes  into  words," 
laughing  again  at  his  astounded  look. 

He  took  her  hand,  —  a  dewy,  healthy  hand, — 
the  very  touch  of  it  meant  action  and  life. 

"  What  if  I  say,  then,"  he  said,  earnestly, 
"that  I  do  not  find  my  angel  perfect,  be  the 
fault  mine  or  hers?  The  child  Margret,  with 
her  sudden  tears,  and  laughter,  and  angry  heats, 
is  gone,  —  I  killed  her,  I  think,  —  gone  long  ago. 
I  will  not  take  in  place  of  her  this  worn,  pale 
ghost,  who  wears  clothes  as  chilly  as  if  she 
came  from  the  dead,  and  stands  alone,  as  ghosts 
do." 


242  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

She  stood  a  little  way  off,  her  great  brown 
eyes  flashing  with  tears.  It  was  so  strange  a 
joy  to  find  herself  cared  for,  when  she  had  be 
lieved  she  was  old  and  hard  :  the  very  idle  jest 
ing  made  her  youth  and  happiness  real  to  her. 
Holmes  saw  that  with  his  quick  tact.  He  flung 
playfully  a  crimson  shawl  that  lay  there  about 
her  white  neck. 

"  My  wife  must  suffer  her  life  to  flush  out  in 
gleams  of  colour  and  light :  her  cheeks  must 
hint  at  a  glow  within,  as  yours  do  now.  I  will 
have  no  hard  angles,  no  pallor,  no  uncertain 
memory  of  pain  in  her  life  :  it  shall  be  perpetual 
summer." 

He  loosened  her  hair,  and  it  rolled  down 
about  the  bright,  tearful  face,  shining  in  the 
red  fire-light  like  a  mist  of  tawny  gold. 

"  I  need  warmth  and  freshness  and  light :  my 
wife  shall  bring  them  to  me.  She  shall  be  no 
strong-willed  reformer,  standing  alone  :  a  sover 
eign  lady  with  kind  words  for  the  world,  who 
gives  her  hand  only  to  that  man  whom  she 
trusts,  and  keeps  her  heart  and  its  secrets  for 
me  alone." 

She  paid  no  heed  to  him  other  than  by  a 
deepening  colour  ;  the  clock,  however,  grew 
tired  of  the  long  soliloquy,  and  broke  in  with 
an  asthmatic  warning  as  to  the  time  of  night. 

"  There  is  midnight,"  she  said.     "  You  shall 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  243 

go,  now,  Stephen  Holmes,  —  quick  !  before 
your  sovereign  lady  fades,  like  Cinderella,  in 
to  grayness  and  frozen  eyes !  " 

When  he  was  gone,  she  knelt  down  by  her 
window,  remembering  that  night  long  ago,  — 
free  to  sob  and  weep  out  her  joy,  —  very  sure 
that  her  Master  had  not  forgotten  to  hear  even 
^_  a  woman's  prayer,  and  to  give  her  her  true  work, 
—  very  sure,  —  never  to  doubt  again.  There 
was  a  dark,  sturdy  figure  pacing  up  and  down  the 
road,  that  she  did  not  see.  It  was  there  when 
the  night  was  over,  and  morning  began  to  dawn. 
Christmas  morning !  he  remembered,  —  it  was 
something  to  him  now!  Never  again  a  home 
less,  solitary  man !  You  would  think  the  man 
weak,  if  I  were  to  tell  you  how  this  word 
"home"  had  taken  possession  of  him,  —  how 
he  had  planned  out  work  through  the  long 
night :  success  to  come,  but  with  his  wife 
nearest  his  heart,  and  the  homely  farm-house, 
and  the  old  school-master  in  the  centre  of  the 
picture.  Such  an  humble  castle  in  the  air! 
Christmas  morning  was  surely  something  to 
him.  Yet,  as  the  night  passed,  he  went  back 
to  the  years  that  had  been  wasted,  with  an 
unavailing  bitterness.  He  would  not  turn  from 
the  truth,  that,  with  his  strength  of  body  and 
brain  to  command  happiness  and  growth,  his 
life  had  been  a  failure.  I  think  it  was  first  on 


244  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

that  night  that  the  story  of  the  despised  Naza- 
rene  came  to  him  with  a  new  meaning,  —  One 
who  came  to  gather  up  these  broken  fragments 
of  lives  and  save  them  with  His  own.  But 
vaguely,  though :  Christmas-day  as  yet  was  to 
him  the  day  when  love  came  into  the  world. 
He  knew  the  meaning  of  that.  So  he  watched 
with  an  eagerness  new  to  him  the  day-breaking. 
He  could  see  Margret's  window,  and  a  dim  light 
in  it:  she  would  be  awake,  praying  for  him, 
no  doubt.  He  pondered  on  that.  Would  you 
think  Holmes  weak,  if  he  forsook  the  faith  of 
Fichte,  sometime,  led  by  a  woman's  hand  ? 
Think  of  the  apostle  of  the  positive  philoso 
phers,  and  say  no  more.  He  could  see  a  flicker 
ing  light  at  dawn  crossing  the  hall :  he  remem 
bered  the  old  school-master's  habit  well,  —  calling 
"  Happy  Christmas  "  at  every  door :  he  meant 
to  go  down  there  for  breakfast,  as  he  used  to 
do,  imagining  how  the  old  man  would  wring  his 
hands,  with  a  "  Holloa !  you  're  welcome  home, 
Stephen,  boy !  "  and  Mrs.  Howth  would  bring 
out  the  jars  of  pine-apple  preserve  which  her 
sister  sent  her  every  year  from  the  West  Indies. 

And  then Never  mind  what  then.     Stephen 

Holmes  was  very  much  in  love,  and  this  Christ 
mas-day  had  much  to  bring  him.  Yet  it  was 
with  a  solemn  shadow  on  his  face  that  he 
watched  the  dawn,  showing  that  he  grasped 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  245 

the  awful  meaning  of  this  day  that  "brought 
love  into  the  world."  Through  the  clear,  frosty 
night  he  could  hear  a  low  chime  of  distant  bells 
shiver  the  air,  hurrying  faint  and  far  to  tell  the 
glad  tidings.  He  fancied  that  the  dawn  flushed 
warm  to  hear  the  story,  —  that  the  very  earth 
should  rejoice  in  its  frozen  depths,  if  it  were 
true.  If  it  were  true !  —  if  this  passion  in  his 
heart  were  but  a  part  of  an  all-embracing  power, 
in  whose  clear  depths  the  world  struggled  vain 
ly !  —  if  it  were  true  that  this  Christ  did  come 
to  make  that  love  clear  to  us !  There  would  be 
some  meaning  then  in  the  old  school-master's 
joy,  in  the  bells  wakening  the  city  yonder,  in  even 
poor  Lois' s  thorough  content  in  this  day,  —  for  it 
would  be,  he  knew,  a  thrice  happy  day  to  her. 
A  strange  story  that  of  the  Child  coming  into 
the  world,  —  simple  !  He  thought  of  it,  watch 
ing,  through  his  cold,  gray  eyes,  how  all  the 
fresh  morning  told  it,  —  it  was  in  the  very  air ; 
thinking  how  its  echo  stole  through  the  whole 
world,  —  how  innumerable  children's  voices  told 
it  in  eager  laughter, —  how  even  the  lowest 
slave  half-smiled,  on  waking,  to  think  it  was 
Christmas-day,  the  day  that  Christ  was  born. 
He  could  hear  from  the  church  on  the  hill  that 
they  were  singing  again  the  old  song  of  the  an 
gels.  Did  this  matter  to  him  ?  Did  not  he 
care,  with  the  new  throb  in  his  heart,  who  was 


246  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

born  this  day  ?  There  is  no  smile  on  his  face 
as  he  listens  to  the  words,  "  Glory  to  God  in 
the  highest,  and  on  earth  peace,  good-will 
toward  men;"  it  bends  lower,  —  lower  only. 
But  in  his  soul-lit  eyes  there  are  warm  tears, 
and  on  his  worn  face  a  sad  and  solemn  joy. 


CHAPTER  XL 

I  AM  going  to  end  my  story  now.  There  are 
phases  more  vivid  in  the  commonplace  lives  of 
these  men  and  women,  I  do  not  doubt :  love, 
as  poignant  as  pain  in  its  joy;  crime,  weak  and 
foul  and  foolish,  like  all  crime  ;  silent  self-sacri 
fices  :  but  I  leave  them  for  you  to  paint ;  you 
will  find  colours  enough  in  your  own  house  and 
heart. 

As  for  Christmas-day,  neither  you  nor  I  need 
try  to  do  justice  to  that  theme  :  how  the  old 
school-master  went  about,  bustling,  his  thin  face 
quite  hot  with  enthusiasm,  and  muttering,  "  God 
bless  my  soul!"  —  hardly  recovered  from  the 
sudden  delight  of  finding  his  old  pupil  waiting 
for  him  when  he  went  down  in  the  morning; 
how  he  insisted  on  being  led  by  him,  and  nobody 
else,  all  day,  and  before  half  an  hour  had  confi 
ded,  under  solemn  pledges  of  secrecy,  the  great 
project  of  the  book  about  Bertrand  de  Born  ; 
how  even  easy  Mrs.  Howth  found  her  hospita 
ble  Virginian  blood  in  a  glow  at  the  unexpected 
breakfast-guest,  —  settling  into  more  confident 

pleasure  as  dinner  came  on,  for  which  success 

11* 


248  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

was  surer ;  how  cold  it  was,  outside ;  how  Joel 
piled  on  great  fires,  and  went  off  on  some  mys 
terious  errand,  having  "  other  chores  to  do  than 
idling  and  duddering ; "  how  the  day  rose  into 
a  climax  of  perfection  at  dinner-time,  to  Mrs. 
Howth's  mind,  —  the  turkey  being  done  to  a 
delicious  brown,  the  plum-pudding  quivering 
like  luscious  jelly  (a  Christian  dinner  to-day,  if 
we  starve  the  rest  of  the  year !).  Even  Dr. 
Knowles,  who  brought  a  great  bouquet  out  for 
the  school-master,  was  in  an  unwonted  good- 
humour  ;  and  Mr.  Holmes,  of  whom  she  stood  a 
little  in  dread,  enjoyed  it  all  with  such  zest, 
and  was  so  attentive  to  them  all,  but  Margret. 
They  hardly  spoke  to  each  other  all  day ;  it 
quite  fretted  the  old  lady ;  indeed,  she  gave  the 
girl  a  good  scolding  about  it  out  in  the  pantry, 
until  she  was  ready  to  cry.  She  had  looked 
that  way  all  day,  however. 

Knowles  was  hurt  deep  enough  when  he  saw 
Holmes,  and  suspected  the  worst,  under  all  his 
good-humour.  It  was  a  bitter  disappointment  to 
give  up  the  girl ;  for,  beside  the  great  work,  he 
loved  her  in  an  uncouth  fashion,  and  hated 
Holmes.  He  met  her  alone  in  the  morning  • 
but  when  he  saw  how  pale  she  grew,  expecting 
his  outbreak,  and  how  she  glanced  timidly  in 
at  the  room  where  Stephen  was,  he  relented. 
Something  in  the  wet  brown  eye  perhaps  re- 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  249 

called  a  forgotten  dream  of  his  boyhood ;  for 
he  sighed  sharply,  and  did  not  swear  as  he 
meant  to.  All  he  said  was,  that  "  women  will 
be  women,  and  that  she  had  a  worse  job  on  her 
hands  than  the  House  of  Refuge," — « which  she 
put  down  to  the  account  of  his  ill-temper,  and 
only  laughed,  and  made  him  shake  hands. 

Lois  and  her  father  came  out  in  the  old  cart 
in  high  state  across  the  bleak,  snowy  hills,  quite 
aglow  with  all  they  had  seen  at  the  farm-houses 
on  the  road.  Margret  had  arranged  a  settle  for 
the  sick  girl  by  the  kitchen-fire,  but  they  all 
came  out  to  speak  to  her. 

As  for  the  dinner,  it  was  the  essence  of  all 
Christmas  dinners :  Dickens  himself,  the  priest 
of  the  genial  day,  would  have  been  contented. 
The  old  school-master  and  his  wife  had  hearts 
big  and  warm  enough  to  do  the  perpetual  hon 
ours  of  a  baronial  castle  ;  so  you  may  know  how 
the  little  room  and  the  faces  about  the  homely 
table  glowed  and  brightened.  Even  Knowles 
began  to  think  that  Holmes  might  not  be  so 
bad,  after  all,  recalling  the  chicken  in  the  mill, 
and, —  "  Well,  it  was  better  to  think  well  of  all 
men,  poor  devils!" 

I  am  sorry  to  say  there  was  a  short  thunder 
storm  in  the  very  midst  of  the  dinner.  Knowles 
and  Mr.  Howth,  in  their  anxiety  to  keep  off 
from  ancient  subjects  of  dispute,  came,  for 


250  MAEGRET  HOWTH. 

a  wonder,  on  modern  politics,  and  of  course 
there  was  a  terrible  collision,  which  made  Mrs. 
Howth  quite  breathless :  it  was  over  in  a  min 
ute,  however,  and  it  was  hard  to  tell  which  was 
the  most  repentant.  Knowles,  as  you  know, 
was  a  disciple  of  Garrison,  and  the  old  school 
master  was  a  States'-rights  man,  as  you  might 
suppose  from  his  antecedents,  —  suspected,  in 
deed,  of  being  a  contributor  to  "  DeBow's  Re 
view."  I  may  as  well  come  out  with  the  whole 
truth,  and  acknowledge  that  at  the  present  writ 
ing  the  old  gentleman  is  the  very  hottest  Se 
cessionist  I  know.  If  it  hurts  the  type,  write  it 
down  a  vice  of  blood,  O  printers  of  New  Eng 
land ! 

The  dinner,  perhaps,  was  fresher  and  heartier 
after  that.  Then  Knowles  went  back  to  town  ; 
and  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  as  it  grew 
dusk,  Lois  started,  knowing  how  many  would 
come  into  her  little  shanty  in  the  evening  to  wish 
her  Happy  Christmas,  although  it  was  over.  They 
piled  up  comforts  and  blankets  in  the  cart,  and 
she  lay  on  them  quite  snugly,  her  scarred  child's- 
face  looking  out  from  a  great  woollen  hood  Mrs. 
Howth  gave  her.  Old  Yare  held  Barney,  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  looking  as  if  he  deserved 
hanging,  but  very  proud  of  the  kindness  they  all 
showed  his  girl.  Holmes  gave  him  some  money 
for  a  Christmas  gift,  and  he  took  it,  eagerly 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  251 

enough.  For  some  unexpressed  reason,  they 
stood  a  long  time  in  the  snow  bidding  Lois 
good-bye  ;  and  for  the  same  reason,  it  may  be, 
she  was  loath  to  go,  looking  at  each  one  ear 
nestly  as  she  laughed  and  grew  red  and  pale  an 
swering  them,  kissing  Mrs.  Howth's  hand  when 
she  gave  it  to  her.  When  the  cart  did  drive 
away,  she  watched  them  standing  there  until 
she  was  out  of  sight,  and  waved  her  scrap  of  a 
handkerchief ;  and  when  the  road  turned  down 
the  hill,  lay  down  and  softly  cried  to  herself. 

Now  that  they  were  alone  they  gathered  close 
about  the  fire,  while  the  day  without  grew  gray 
and  colder,  —  Margret  in  her  old  place  by  her 
father's  knee.  Some  dim  instinct  had  troubled 
the  old  man  all  day  ;  it  did  now  :  whenever 
Margret  spoke,  he  listened  eagerly,  and  forgot 
to  answer  sometimes,  he  was  so  lost  in  thought. 
At  last  he  put  his  hand-  on  her  head,  and  whis 
pered,  "  What  ails  my  little  girl  ?  "  And  then 
his  little  girl  sobbed  and  cried,  as  she  had  been 
ready  to  do  all  day,  and  kissed  his  trembling 
hand,  and  went  and  hid  on  her  mother's  neck, 
and  left  Stephen  to  say  everything  for  her. 
And  I  think  you  and  I  had  better  come  away. 

It  was  quite  dark  before  they  had  done  talk 
ing,  —  quite  dark  ;  the  wood-fire  had  charred 
down  into  a  great  bed  of  crimson ;  the  tea 
stood  till  it  grew  cold,  and  no  one  drank  it. 


252  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

The  old  man  got  up  at  last,  and  Holmes  led 
him  to  the  library,  where  he  smoked  every 
evening.  He  held  Maggie,  as  he  called  her,  in 
his  arms  a  long  time,  and  wrung  Holmes's 
hand.  "  God  bless  you,  Stephen !  "  he  said,  — 
"  this  is  a  very  happy  Christmas-day  to  me." 
And  yet,  sitting  alone,  the  tears  ran  over  his 
wrinkled  face  as  he  smoked ;  and  when  his 
pipe  went  out,  he  did  not  know  it,  but  sat 
motionless.  Mrs.  Howth,  fairly  confounded  by 
the  shock,  went  up-stairs,  and  stayed  there  a 
long  time.  When  she  came  down,  the  old 
lady's  blue  eyes  were  tenderer,  if  that  were  pos 
sible,  and  her  face  very  pale.  She  went  into 
the  library  and  asked  her  husband  if  she  did 
n't  prophesy  this  two  years  ago,  and  he  said 
she  did,  and  after  a  while  asked  her  if  she  re 
membered  the  barbecue-night  at  Judge  Clapp's 
thirty  years  ago.  She  blushed  at  that,  and  then 
went  up  and  kissed  him.  She  had  heard  Joel's 
horse  clattering  up  to  the  kitchen-door,  so  con 
cluded  she  would  go  out  and  scold  him.  Under 
the  circumstances  it  would  be  a  relief. 

If  Mrs.  Howth's  nerves  had  been  weak,  she 
might  have  supposed  that  free-born  serving- 
man  seized  with  sudden  insanity,  from  the 
sight  that  met  her,  going  into  the  kitchen. 
His  dinner,  set  on  the  dresser,  was  flung  con 
temptuously  on  the  ashes;  a  horrible  cloud  of 


MARGRET   HOWTH.  253 

burning  grease  rushed  from  a  dirty  pint-pot  on 
the  table,  and  before  this  Joel  was  capering  and 
snorting  like  some  red-headed  Hottentot  before 
his  fetich,  occasionally  sticking  his  fingers  into 
the  nauseous  stuff,  and  snuffing  it  up  as  if  it 
were  roses.  He  was  a  church-member  :  he 
could  not  be  drunk  ?  At  the  sight  of  her,  he 
tried  to  regain  the  austere  dignity  usual  to  him 
when  women  were  concerned,  but  lapsed  into 
an  occasional  giggle,  which  spoiled  the  effect. 

"  Where  have  you  been,"  she  inquired,  se 
verely,  "  scouring  the  country  like  a  heathen 
on  this  blessed  day  ?  And  what  is  that  you 
have  burning  ?  You  're  disgracing  the  house, 
and  strangers  in  it." 

Joel's  good-humour  was  proof  against  even 
this. 

"  I  've  scoured  to  some  purpose,  then.  Dun't 
tell  the  mester :  it  '11  muddle  his  brains  t' -night. 
Wait  till  mornin'.  Squire  More  '11  be  down  his- 
self  t'  'xplain." 

He  rubbed  the  greasy  fingers  into  his  hair, 
while  Mrs.  Howth's  eyes  were  fixed  in  dumb 
perplexity. 

"  Ye  see,"  —  slowly,  determined  to  make  it 
clear  to  her  now  and  forever,  —  "it  's  water  :  no, 
t'  a'n't  water:  it  's  troubled  me  an'  Mester 
Howth  some  time  in  Poke  Run,  atop  o'  't.  I 
hed  my  suspicions,  —  so  'd  he ;  lay  low,  though, 


254  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

frum    all   women-folks.     So 

down,  unbeknown,  to  Squire  More,  an'  it 's  oil ! " 

—  jumping   like    a   wild    Indian,  —  "thank  the 
Lord  far  his  marcies,  it 's  oil !  " 

"  Well,  Joel,"  she  said,  calmly,  "  very  disa 
greeable  smelling  oil  it  is,  I  must  say." 

"  Good  save  the  woman ! "  he  broke  out,  sotto 
voce,  "  she  's  a  born  natural !  Did  ye  never 
hear  of  a  shaft  ?  or  millions  o'  gallons  a  day  ? 
It  's  better  nor  a  California  ranch,  I  tell  ye. 
Mebbe,"  charitably,  "  ye  did  n't  know  Poke 
Run  's  the  mester's  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  do.  But  I  do  not  see  what  this 
green  ditch-water  is  to  me.  And  I  think, 
Joel," 

"  It 's  more  to  ye  nor  all  yer  States'-rights  as 
I  'm  sick  o'  hearin'  of.  It 's  carpets,  an'  bun- 
nets,  an'  slithers  of  railroad-stock,  an'  some 
colour  on  Margot's  cheeks,  —  ye  'ed  best  think 
o'  that !  That 's  what  it  is  to  ye !  I  'm  goin' 
to  take  stock  myself.  I  'm  glad  that  gell  '11  git 
rest  frum  her  mills  an'  her  Houses  o'  Deviltry, 

—  she  's  got  gumption  fur  a  dozen  women." 
He  went  on  muttering,  as  he  gathered  up  his 

pint-pot  and  bottle,  — 

"  I  Jm  goin'  to  send  my  Tim  to  college  soon  's 
the  thing  's  in  runnin'  order.  Lord!  what  a 
lawyer  that  boy  '11  make!" 

Mrs.  Howth's  brain  was  still  muddled. 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  255 

"  You  are  better  pleased  than  you  were  at 
Lincoln's  election,"  she  observed,  placidly. 

"  Politics  be  darned ! "  he  broke  out,  forget 
ting  the  teachings  of  Mr.  Clinche.  "  Now,  Mem, 
dun't  ye  muddle  the  mester's  brain  t' -night  wi' 
't,  I  say.  I  'm  goin'  t'  'xperiment  myself  a 
bit." 

Which  he  did,  accordingly,  —  shutting  him 
self  up  in  the  smoke-house  and  burning  the 
compound  in  divers  sconces  and  Wide-Awake 
torches,  giving  up  the  entire  night  to  his  diaboli 
cal  orgies. 

Mrs.  Howth  did  not  tell  the  master ;  for  one 
reason :  it  took  a  long  time  for  so  stupendous 
an  idea  to  penetrate  the  good  lady's  brain  ;  and 
for  another :  her  motherly  heart  was  touched 
by  another  story  than  this  Aladdin's  lamp  of 
Joel's  wherein  burned  petroleum.  She  watched 
from  her  window  until  she  saw  Holmes  cross 
ing  the  icy  road :  there  was  a  little  bitterness, 
I  confess,  in  the  thought  that  he  had  taken 
her  child  from  her;  but  the  prayer  that  rose 
for  them  both  took  her  whole  woman's  heart 
with  it. 

The  road  was  rough  over  the  hills  ;  the  wind 
that  struck  Holmes's  face  bitingly  keen :  perhaps 
the  life  coming  for  him  would  be  as  cold  a  strug 
gle,  having  not  only  poverty  to  conquer,  but 
himself.  But  he  is  a  strong  man,  —  no  stronger 


256  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

puts  his  foot  down  with  cool,  resolute  tread ;  and 
to-night  there  is  a  thrill  on  his  lips  that  never 
rested  there  before,  —  a  kiss,  dewy  and  warm. 
Something,  some  new  belief,  too,  stirs  in  his 
heart,  like  a  subtile  atom  of  pure  fire,  that  he 
hugs  closely,  —  his  for  all  time.  No  poverty  or 
death  shall  ever  drive  it  away.  Perhaps  he  en 
tertains  an  angel  unaware. 

After  that  night  Lois  never  left  her  little 
shanty.  The  days  that  followed  were  like  one 
long  Christmas  ;  for  her  poor  neighbors,  black 
and  white,  had  some  plot  among  themselves, 
and  worked  zealously  to  make  them  seem  so  to 
her.  It  was  easy  to  make  these  last  days  hap 
py  for  the  simple  little  soul  who  had  always 
gathered  up  every  fragment  of  pleasure  in  her 
featureless  life,  and  made  much  of  it,  and  re 
joiced  over  it.  She  grew  bewildered,  some 
times,  lying  on  her  wooden  settle  by  the  fire; 
people  had  always  been  friendly,  taken  care  of 
her,  but  now  they  were  eager  in  their  kindness, 
as  though  the  time  were  short.  She  did  not 
understand  the  reason,  at  first;  she  did  not 
want  to  die :  yet  if  it  hurt  her,  when  it  grew 
clear  at  last,  no  one  knew  it ;  it  was  not  her 
way  to  speak  of  pain.  Only,  as  she  grew 
weaker,  day  by  day,  she  began  to  set  her  house 
in  order,  as  one  might  say,  in  a  quaint,  almost 
comical  fashion,  giving  away  everything  she 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  257 

owned,  down  to  her  treasures  of  colored  bot 
tles  and  needle-books,  mending  her  father's 
clothes,  and  laying  them  out  in  her  drawers ; 
lastly,  she  had  Barney  brought  in  from  the 
country,  and  every  day  would  creep  to  the 
window  to  see  him  fed  and  chirrup  to  him, 
whereat  the  poor  old  beast  would  look  up  with 
his  dim  eye,  and  try  to  neigh  a  feeble  answer. 
Kitts  used  to  come  every  day  to  see  her,  though 
he  never  said  much  when  he  was  there  :  he  lug 
ged  his  great  copy  of  the  Venus  del  Pardo  along 
with  him  one  day,  and  left  it,  thinking  she  would 
like  to  look  at  it ;  Knowles  called  it  trash,  when 
became.  The  Doctor  came  always  in  the  morn 
ing  ;  he  told  her  he  would  read  to  her  one  day, 
and  did  it  always  afterwards,  putting  on  his 
horn  spectacles,  and  holding  her  old  Bible  close 
up  to  his  rugged,  anxious  face.  He  used  to 
read  most  from  the  Gospel  of  St.  John.  She 
liked  better  to  hear  him  than  any  of  the  others, 
even  than  Margret,  whose  voice  was  so  low  and 
tender :  something  in  the  man's  half-savage  na 
ture  was*akin  to  the  child's. 

As  the  day  drew  near  when  she  was  to  go, 
every  pleasant  trifle  seemed  to  gather  a  deeper, 
solemn  meaning.  Jenny  Balls  came  in  one 
night,  and  old  Mrs.  Polston. 

"  We  thought  you  'd  like  to  see  her  weddin'- 
dress,  Lois,"  said  the  old  woman,  taking  off 


258  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

Jenny's  cloak,  "  seein'  as  the  weddin'  was  to 
hev  been  to-morrow,  and  was  put  off  on  'count 
of  you." 

Lois  did  like  to  see  it ;  sat  up,  her  face  quite 
flushed  to  see  how  nicely  it  fitted,  and  stroked 
back  Jenny's  soft  hair  under  the  veil.  And 
Jenny,  being  a  warm-hearted  little  thing,  broke 
into  a  sobbing  fit,  saying  that  it  spoiled  it  all 
to  have  Lois  gone. 

"  Don't  muss  your  veil,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Pol- 
ston. 

But  Jenny  cried  on,  hiding  her  face  in  Lois's 
skinny  hand,  until  Sam  Polston  came  in,  when 
she  grew  quiet  and  shy.  The  poor  deformed 
girl  lay  watching  them,  as  they  talked.  Very 
pretty  Jenny  looked,  with  her  blue  eyes  and 
damp  pink  cheeks  ;  and  it  was  a  manly,  grave 
love  in  Sam's  face,  when  it  turned  to  her.  A 
different  love  from  any  she  had  known  :  better, 
she  thought.  It  could  not  be  helped  ;  but  it 
was  better. 

After  they  were  gone,  she  lay  a  long  time 
quiet,  with  her  hand  over  her  eyes.  -  Forgive 
her!  she,  too,  was  a  woman.  Ah,  it  may  be 
there  are  more  wrongs  that  shall  be  righted 
yonder  in  the  To- Morrow  than  are  set  down  in 
your  theology ! 

And  so  it  was,  that,  as  she  drew  nearer  to 
this  To- Morrow,  the  brain  of  the  girl  grew 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  259 

clearer,  —  struggling,  one  would  think,  to  shake 
off  whatever  weight  had  been  put  on  it  by  blood 
or  vice  or  poverty,  and  become  itself  again. 
Perhaps,  even  in  her  cheerful,  patient  life,  there 
had  been  hours  when  she  had  known  the  wrongs 
that  had  been  done  her,  known  how  cruelly  the 
world  had  thwarted  her ;  her  very  keen  insight 
into  whatever  was  beautiful  or  helpful  may 
have  made  her  see  her  own  mischance,  the 
blank  she  had  drawn  in  life,  more  bitterly. 
She  did  not  see  it  bitterly  now.  Death  is  hon 
est  ;  all  things  grew  clear  to  her,  going  down 
into  the  valley  of  the  shadow  ;  so,  wakening  to 
the  consciousness  of  stifled  powers  and  ungiven 
happiness,  she  saw  that  the  fault  was  not  hers, 
nor  His  who  had  appointed  her  lot ;  He  had 
helped  her  to  bear  it,  —  bearing  worse  himself. 
She  did  not  say  once,  "  I  might  have  been," 
but  day  by  day,  more  surely,  "  I  shall  be." 
There  was  not  a  tear  on  the  homely  faces  turn 
ing  from  her  bed,  not  a  tint  of  colour  in  the 
flowers  they  brought  her,  not  a  shiver  of  light 
in  the  ashy  sky,  that  did  not  make  her  more 
sure  of  that  which  was  to  come.  More  loving 
she  grew,  as  she  went  away  from  them,  the 
touch  of  her  hand  more  pitiful,  her  voice  more 
tender,  if  such  a  thing  could  be,  —  with  a  look 
in  her  eyes  never  seen  there  before.  Old  Yare 
pointed  it  out  to  Mrs.  Polston  one  day. 


260  MARGRET    HOWTH. 

"  My  girl  's  far  off  frum  us,"  he  said,  sobbing 
in  the  kitchen,  —  "  my  girl 's  far  off  now." 

It  was  the  last  night  of  the  year  that  she 
died.  She  was  so  much  better  that  they  all 
were  quite  cheerful.  Kitts  went  away  as  it 
grew  dark,  and  she  bade  him  wrap  up  his 
throat  with  such  a  motherly  dogmatism  that 
they  all  laughed  at  her ;  she,  too,  with  the  rest. 

"  I  '11  make  you  a  New- Year's  call,"  he  said, 
going  out ;  and  she  called  out  that  she  should 
be  sure  to  expect  him. 

She  seemed  so  strong  that  Holmes  and  Mrs. 
Polston  and  Margret,  who  were  there,  were 
going  home ;  besides,  old  Yare  said,  "  I  'd  like 
to  take  care  o'  my  girl  alone  to-night,  ef  yoh  'd 
let  me,"  —  for  they  had  not  trusted  him  before. 
But  Lois  asked  them  not  to  go  until  the  Old 
Year  was  over  ;  so  they  waited  down-stairs. 

The  old  man  fell  asleep,  and  it  was  near  mid 
night  when  he  wakened  with  a  cold  touch  on 
his  hand. 

"  It 's  come,  father ! " 

He  started  up  with  a  cry,  looking  at  the  new 
smile  in  her  eyes,  grown  strangely  still. 

"  Call  them  all,  quick,  father !  " 

Whatever  was  the  mystery  of  death  that  met 
her  now,  her  heart  clung  to  the  old  love  that  had 
been  true  to  her  so  long. 

He  did  not  move. 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  261 

"  Let  me  hev  yoh  to  myself,  Lo,  't  th'  last ; 
yoh  're  all  I  hev ;  let  me  hev  yoh  't  th'  last." 

It  was  a  bitter  disappointment,  but  she 
roused  herself  even  then  to  smile,  and  tell  him 
yes,  cheerfully.  You  call  it  a  trifle,  nothing  ? 
It  may  be ;  yet  I  think  the  angels  looking  down 
had  tears  in  their  eyes,  when  they  saw  the  last 
trial  of  the  unselfish,  solitary  heart,  and  kept  for 
her  a  different  crown  from  his  who  conquers  a 
city. 

The  fire-light  grew  warmer  and  redder ;  her 
eyes  followed  it,  as  if  all  that  had  been  bright 
and  kindly  in  her  life  were  coming  back  in  it. 
She  put  her  hand  on  her  father,  trying,  vainly 
to  smooth  his  gray  hair.  The  old  man's  heart 
smote  him  for  something,  for  his  sobs  grew 
louder,  and  he  left  her  a  moment ;  then  she 
saw  them  all,  faces  very  dear  to  her  even  then. 
She  laughed  and  nodded  to  them  all  in  the  old 
childish  way  ;  then  her  lips  moved.  "  It  Js  come 
right!"  she  tried  to  say;  but  the  weak  voice 
would  never  speak  again  on  earth. 

<•  It  's  the  turn  o'  the  night,"  said  Mrs.  Pols- 
ton,  solemnly  ;  "  lift  her  head  ;  the  Old  Year 's 
goin'  out." 

Margret  lifted  her  head,  and  held  it  on  her 
breast.  She  could  hear  cries  and  sobs ;  the 
faces,  white  now,  and  wet.  pressed  nearer,  yet 
fading  slowly :  it  was  the  Old  Year  going  out, 


262  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

the  worn-out  year  of  her  life.  Holmes  opened 
the  window :  the  cold  night-wind  rushed  in, 
bearing  with  it  snatches  of  broken  harmony : 
some  idle  musician  down  in  the  city,  playing 
fragments  of  some  old,  sweet  air,  heavy  with 
love  and  regret.  It  may  have  been  chance  :  yet, 
let  us  think  it  was  not  chance ;  let  us  believe 
that  He,  who  had  made  the  world  warm  and 
happy  for  her,  chose  that  this  best  voice  of  all 
should  bid  her  good-bye  at  the  last. 

So  the  Old  Year  went  out  in  that  music. 
The  dull  eyes,  loving  to  the  end,  wandered 
vaguely  as  the  sounds  died  away,  as  if  losing 
something,  —  losing  all,  suddenly.  She  sighed 
as  the  clock  struck,  and  then  a  strange  calm, 
unknown  before,  stole  over  her  face;  her  eyes 
flashed  open  with  a  living  joy.  Margret  stooped 
to  close  them,  kissing  the  cold  lids  ;  and  Tiger, 
who  had  climbed  upon  the  bed,  whined  and 
crept  down. 

"  It  is  the  New  Year,"  said  Holmes,  bending 
his  head. 

The  cripple  was  dead  ;  but  Lois,  free,  loving, 
and  beloved,  trembled  from  her  prison  to  her 
Master's  side  in  the  To- Morrow. 

I  can  show  you  her  grave  out  there  in  the 
hills,  —  a  short,  stunted  grave,  like  a  child's. 
No  one  goes  there,  although  there  are  many 
firesides  where  they  speak  of  "  Lois "  softly, 


MARGRET   HOWTH.  263 

as  of  something  holy  and  dear:  but  they  think 
of  her  always  as  not  there ;  as  gone  home ; 
even  old  Yare  looks  up,  when  he  talks  of  "  my 
girl."  Yet,  knowing  that  nothing  in  God's  just 
universe  is  lost,  or  fails  to  meet  the  late  fulfil 
ment  of  its  hope,  I  like  to  think  of  her  poor 
body  lying  there  :  I  like  to  believe  that  the  great 
mother  was  glad  to  receive  the  form  that  want 
and  crime  of  men  had  thwarted,  —  took  her  un 
couth  child  home  again,  that  had  been  so  cruelly 
wronged,  —  folded  it  in  her  warm  bosom  with 
tender,  palpitating  love. 

It  pleased  me  in  the  winter  months  to  think 
that  the  worn-out  limbs,  the  old  scarred  face  of 
Lois  rested,  slept :  crumbled  into  fresh  atoms, 
woke  at  last  with  a  strange  sentience,  and,  when 
God  smiled  permission  through  the  summer 
sun,  flashed  forth  in  a  wild  ecstasy  of  the  true 
beauty  that  she  loved  so  well.  In  no  question 
ing,  sad  pallor  of  sombre  leaves  or  gray  lich 
ens  :  throbbed  out  rather  in  answering  crim 
sons,  in  lilies,  white,  exultant  in  a  chordant 
life! 

Yet,  more  than  this  :  I  strive  to  grope,  with 
dull,  earthy  sense,  at  her  freed  life  in  that  ear 
nest  land  where  souls  forget  to  hunger  or  to  hope, 
and  learn  to  be.  And  so  thinking,  the  certainty 
of  her  aim  and  work  and  love  yonder  comes 
with  a  new,  vital  reality,  beside  which  the  story 
12 


264  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

of  the  yet  living  men  and  women  of  whom  I 
have  told  you  grows  vague  and  incomplete, 
like  unguessed  riddles.  I  have  no  key  to  solve 
them  with,  —  no  right  to  solve  them. 

My  story  is  but  a  mere  groping  hint  ?  It 
lacks  determined  truth,  a  certain  yea  and  nay  ? 
It  has  no  conduit  of  God's  justice  running 
through  it,  awarding  apparent  good  and  ill  ? 
I  know :  it  is  a  story  of  To-Day.  The  Old 
Year  is  on  us  yet.  Poor  old  Knowles  will 
tell  you  it  is  a  dark  day  ;  bewildered  at  the  in 
explicable  failure  of  the  cause  for  which  his  old 
blood  ran  like  water  that  dull  morning  at  Ball's 
Bluff.  He  doubts  everything  in  the  bitterness 
of  wasted  effort  ;  doubts  sometimes,  even,  if 
the  very  flag  he  fights  for,  be  not  the  symbol  of 
a  gigantic  selfishness  :  if  the  Wrong  he  calls 
his  enemy,  have  not  caught  a  certain  truth  to 
give  it  strength.  A  dark  day,  he  tells  you : 
that  the  air  is  filled  with  the  cry  of  the  slave, 
and  of  nations  going  down  into  darkness,  their 
message  untold,  their  work  undone :  that  now, 
as  eighteen  centuries  ago,  the  Helper  stands 
unwelcome  in  the  world ;  that  your  own  heart, 
as  well  as  the  great  humanity,  asks  an  unren- 
dered  justice.  Does  he  utter  all  the  problem 
of  To-Day.  Vandyke,  standing  higher,  perhaps, 
or,  at  any  rate,  born  with  hopefuller  brain, 


MARGRET  HOWTH.  265 

would  show  you  how,  by  the  very  instant  peril 
of  the  hour,  is  lifted  clearer  into  view  the 
eternal  prophecy  of  coming  content :  could  tell 
you  that  the  unquiet  earth,  and  the  unanswer- 
ing  heaven  are  instinct  with  it :  that  the  un- 
granted  prayer  of  your  own  life  should  teach  it 
to  you :  that  in  that  Book  wherein  God  has 
not  scorned  to  write  the  history  of  America,  he 
finds  the  quiet  surety  that  the  rescue  of  the 
world  is  near  at  hand. 

Holmes,  like  most  men  who  make  destiny, 
does  not  pause  in  his  cool,  slow  work  for  their 
prophecy  or  lamentation.  "  Such  men  will 
mould  the  age,"  old  Knowles  says,  drearily, 
for  he  does  not  like  Holmes :  follows  him  un 
willingly,  even  knowing  him  nearer  the  truth 
than  he.  "  Born  for  mastership,  as  I  told  you 

long  ago  :  they  strike  the  blow,  while . 

I  'm  tired  of  theorists,  exponents  of  the  abstract 
right :  your  Hamlets,  and  your  Sewards,  that 
let  occasion  slip  until  circumstance  or  —  mobs 
drift  them  as  they  will." 

But  Knowles's  growls  are  unheeded,  as  usual. 

What  is  this  To-Day  to  Margret  ?  She  has 
no  prophetic  insight,  cares  for  none,  I  am  afraid: 
the  common  things  of  every-day  wear  their  old 
faces  to  her,  dear  and  real.  Her  haste  is  too 
eager  to  allay  the  pain  about  her,  her  husband's 
touch  too  strong  and  tender,  the  Master  beside 


266  MARGRET  HOWTH. 

her  too  actual  a  presence,  for  her  to  waste  her 
life  in  visions.  Something  of  Lois's  live,  uni 
versal  sympathy  has  come  into  her  narrow,  in- 
tenser  nature ;  through  its  one  love,  it  may  be. 
What  is  To-Morrow  until  it  comes  ?  This 
moment  the  evening  air  thrills  with  a  purple 
of  which  no  painter  as  yet  has  caught  the 
tint,  no  poet  the  meaning  ;  no  silent  face 
passes  her  on  the  street  on  which  a  human 
voice  might  not  have  charm  to  call  out  love 
and  power :  the  Helper  yet  waits  near  her. 
Here  is  work,  life  :  the  Old  Year  you  despise 
holds  beauty,  pain,  content  yet  unmastered  : 
let  us  leave  Margret  to  master  them. 

It  does  not  satisfy  you  ?  Child-souls,  you 
tell  me,  like  that  of  Lois,  may  find  it  enough 
to  hold  no  past  and  no  future,  to  accept  the 
work  of  each  moment,  and  think  it  no  wrong 
to  drink  every  drop  of  its  beauty  and  joy :  we, 
who  are  wiser,  laugh  at  them.  It  may  be  :  yet 
I  say  unto  you,  their  angels  only  do  always 
behold  the  face  of  our  Father  in  the  New 
Year. 


THE    END. 


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6         A  Lia  of  Books  Publiflied 
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by   TlCKNOR    AND    FlELDS.  7 

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by   TlCKNOR    AND    FlELDS.  11 


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12       A  Li§t  of  Books  Publifhed 


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